


Russian Roulette

by momopichu



Series: Short Stories [1]
Category: Overwatch (Video Game)
Genre: M/M, Mentions of Suicide, PTSD, Survivor Guilt, Unhealthy Coping Mechanisms, angst with optional happy ending, attempted suicide
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2017-06-18
Updated: 2017-07-03
Packaged: 2018-11-15 13:16:32
Rating: General Audiences
Warnings: Graphic Depictions Of Violence
Chapters: 8
Words: 22,072
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/11231778
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/momopichu/pseuds/momopichu
Summary: There is only one bullet in the chamber and that bullet is for me.- Jack Morrison





	1. Prologue: Family Heirloom

**Author's Note:**

> **WARNING:** Mentions of Suicide or Attempted suicide. Check the tags.  
>  Giving you guys the heads-up first.
> 
> This fic is a fascination with the handgun that Soldier:76 keeps on his body but never seems to use. Looking closely now it's probably your average standard handgun but I took some creative liberties and gave him the Mauser C96. For those of you curious, it's a nearly 100 year old handgun and also makes an appearance in Bioshock Infinite as Booker's Broadsider. It's usually a six shooter with a box chamber right before the trigger, it can have additional ammunition and stock if needed. Otherwise, the handgun is better than the normal, has a stronger range and better penetrating power.
> 
> (A five times he tried to use the Mauser but didn't and the one time he did)

Outside, sirens wailed nonstop, the call for evacuation had started in the early hours of the morning, before the sun had risen and gone on for most of the day, screaming incessantly into the dark of the night. From where he sat, hidden at the back of the barn and nestled into a stack of hay, Jack could see the stars twinkling through the holes in the roof of the barn. They hung up in the big imperial blue, watching him as he sat hunched, reeking of sweat, and other disgusting body fluids. But not once did they see fear cross his eyes, not even as he sat among the rotting corpses that were once the animals of the farm, the bodies that were once his parents, and the leaking scrap of metal that was a wrangled Bastion-unit.

It was in a dream-like state that Jack weighed the handgun in his hand, tracing over the lines and ridges carved into the box chamber. The small weapon was heavy, for it’s size, and it was covered in blood. It coated his hands as he turned the handgun between his fingers, shifting from one palm and then to the other. It had belonged to his father, a memento from his own father, passed on through the family as a means of protection should the worse come to past.

He thought hard about it, but right now he couldn’t remember exactly how he had gained the weapon, a Mauser C96. Gently, Jack ran his finger along the squarish top of the handgun, tracing the sliding ridges where a scope would’ve fit. His fingers, scarred and covered in drying blood, glided across the thin, narrow barrel, feeling the tip where a small sharpened nub had been soldered, an aiming aid, before gliding back down.

Finally they rested on the polished wooden grip, an auburn shade with interlocking threads of gold. Against his palms, the embossed details of curling, wreathing, silver ferns and twirling flowers that he had no name for, pressed hard, no doubt leaving their mark on the skin of his hand. As he had watched so many times, it was nearly methodical how his thumb came to rest on the hammer, and his index to the beautifully carved trigger, carrying it’s own ring of silver ferns.

Very slowly, he brought the weapon to his ear, and shook gently. The single bullet rattled in its chamber, it’s companions having all been expelled earlier on - though Jack could not quite remember where exactly they had gone. Not that it mattered.

Adjusting the position of the gun, he rested the somewhat warm tip of the muzzle against his temple, index finger hugging the trigger with barely a shiver. His breath echoed in the silence of the barn as starlight shone through, lighting the floating specks of dust that always dominated the building. His heartbeat was quiet, even knowing what he was about to do, he took it as silent encouragement.

_ Count to five _ .

He told himself. And against the silence that engulfed the blood drenched farm, he breathed the numbers slowly.

_ One. _

He knew roughly how the weapon worked. Roughly. He slid his eyes shut.

_ Two. _

Pull the hammer. The Mauser responded with a satisfying click that rang in the silence.

_ Three _ .

He could hear the bullet sliding into place, harshly shoved into place, clinking. His index finger twitched on the trigger, tracing the embossed fern.

_ Four _ .

Curl about the trigger, it’s sloping ridge was shaped as if it had been made specifically for his finger.

_ Fi- _

“Jesus fucking Christ.”

Jack’s eyes snapped open, the breath that had been slow in his lungs jolted, sending a searing shock of cold flooding through his body. Like pinpricks of lightning, he felt the pins and needles begin to assault his limbs from where he had been curled for so long. A muffled whimper of pain escaped his lips, and as quickly it had slipped, Jack slapped his hands over his mouth, the Mauser still nestled in the palm of his hand, smooshed up against his nose.

“What the hell was that?”

“On alert, I think we might have a survivor.”

Heavy armoured footfalls thudded through the barn, crinkling the hay underfoot. Clicking followed like a loyal afterbeat, the swaying of buckles against leather, the creaking sound of weapons, bigger and no doubt stronger than the one he held in his hands. Jack held his breath, trying to push himself deeper into the stack of hay that he had taken as his hiding spot.

Perhaps it was minutes, perhaps only scant seconds had passed. But when one of the soldiers finally found his hiding spot, all Jack could do was stay stock still as the rifle was trained on his head before being swayed to the side. The face of the soldier morphing from one of intent concentration to concern as he swung the weapon to his back and began approaching, one hand forward as if to placate a wild animal.

“Captain, I found our survivor.” he called, before turning back to Jack. “Hey, kid. Hey, it’s alright.”

Jack was paralyzed, the Mauser still plastered against his face, digging painfully into his nose and against his cheek. The soldier took another slow step forward, until his hand was close enough to brush. Slowly, the stranger settled on his haunches, looking Jack over.

“Hey kid, my name’s Smith. Like John Smith?” He began “I’m with the military. What’s your name?”

It was a perfectly normal question in a not-so-perfect place, a question he would’ve happily answered on any other day. But was today so different? The sun had rose and set as per normal, the stars had twinkled without a care in the world, the Earth had continued to turn even as infernos broke out across her peaceful surface. Even when the bodies of his close ones just lay on the other side of the wooden partition.

“John Morrison,” he rasped. “But my friends call me Jack.”

“Jack, eh?” the soldier leaned forward, gently putting a hand on his shoulder. The contact was shockingly warm and Jack jumped. Hastily, the soldier clamped down, keeping him grounded. “How long have you been here, Jack?”

“A day, I think?” Jack replied. “I hid the moment the sirens rang.”

Smith looked him over, eyes settling on the Mauser still tucked in his palm. The soldier quirked an eyebrow. “Do you know what that is, Jack?”

“It’s used to protect,” he replied instantly.

Sceptical, that was how Smith looked at him. Jack couldn’t tell how he knew, with but one bullet in the chamber and so close to his body, without the fear of ever having the muzzle even glance once in his direction. Finally, Smith softened, gently coaxing Jack out of his huddled state. Jack didn’t say anything as Smith turned the safety of the Mauser on, he wouldn’t say anything as long as they let him keep the handgun.

“Well Jack,” Smith grunted, lifting him to his feet. “You’re right about that. Can I ask how old you are?”

“Sixteen, sir.”

“Not old enough,” Smith grunted under his breath. Jack suspected the man had been talking mostly to himself. More loudly, Smith said “But we’ll find something for you to do. Come with us.”

And Jack went.

 

...


	2. Stray Wolf

The next time Jack took the Mauser out, was two years later in the quiet of the barracks. He held the gun in a single hand, weighing it like he had back when he was sixteen, hidden away in the back of a barn and praying that Bastions would not hear him breath. The way it sunk in his hand, heavy with it’s single bullet, had not changed from back then. In fact, he suspected the weapon had gotten heavier, which wasn’t possible.

Perhaps a case of nerves.

And he had that by the bucketloads. Two years ago after Smith had picked him up, he had been put to helping the soldiers, mostly as something akin to a powder monkey; scrapping whatever ammo he could off the battlefield for the weary militants to use. After awhile, he had been put to tending to the wounded, the medics never asked where he came from or how he came to be here. There were already so many youngsters displaced by the war and many had been roped in to help where they could, and Jack was just another one of them. He didn’t ask when one day they put a rifle in his hand and taught him to shoot, he didn’t ask when they outfitted him with gear and threw him into the thick of the fighting.

The last few days had been a blur. He remembered something along the lines of helping civilians out of the crossfire. He remembered something about there being nowhere else to go. He remembered getting all the innocents into the underground stations, telling them to run as far and as fast as they could while he and the others held the omnics off. And he remembered…

His shoulder hurt from the constant recoil of the rifle, his eyes were burning in their sockets from having looked down the scope with so much concentration he now had the crosshairs imprinted on his eyes. He remembered blood flooding the streets and soaking the gritty pavement, seeping between the cracks of the tiles even as the soldier that had stood beside him collapsed. ‘Hold the line’ they said, even as the line dwindled and shrunk, men and women falling one by one until there was…

Only one.

The click of the safety rang out in the empty barracks. Outside, he could hear chattering and shouting, some laughing, finding joy where they could in the bleak darkness that encroached on the camp. The bright spotlights that roved back and forth over the compound glanced through the open windows of the barracks now and then, sending the curtains fluttering in it’s wake and the shadows lengthening as it passed.

Shifting from where he was sat on the thin cot, Jack moved till he had his back up against the wall, the issued pillow squished up under the ridges of his spine. Closing his eyes, he brought he Mauser to his temple. And counted to five.

_ One _ .

The hammer locked into place. Stuttering against his thumb as he flicked it down.

_ Two _ .

The bullet slid into place. Tingling in its tiny prison, patient as ever.

_ Three _ .

His index finger slipped from trigger guard to trigger. Gentle on the embossed silver ferns.

_ Four _ .

A bead of sweat rolled down the back of his neck, and yet the cold in his blood was palpable.

_ Fi- _

“Morrison.”

The Mauser was gone as quickly as the door was pushed open. Even with his arm stuck at an odd angle behind him, holding the handgun down under the pillow squashed against his back, Jack kept his blue eyes calm and levelled as the man that had called his name stepped into the silent dorm. He tried to ignore the way the dark man’s chestnut brown eyes roamed over his posture, narrowing acutely as they took in his strangely placed hand and the way he was lounged awkwardly as if he was sitting on something sharp.

“You’re...Morrison?” the man asked.

“Yes sir,” Jack replied. Letting go off the handgun, safely hidden under his pillow, he sat up to face the stranger. “Jack Morrison, at your service.”

“Gabriel Reyes,” the man introduced himself. He was clean shaven, mostly, he had a meticulously cut and styled beard and goatee. Reyes was wearing a standard military issued black singlet and fatigues, armour boots. At his belt hung what Jack presumed were shotgun shells. He stretched a dark, gun-callused palm out to Jack. “I’ve been looking for you.”

Jack took the hand, biting his lip as the warmth in the contact simmered through his body like a burning wave, biting and scorching painfully. Breaking away perhaps a little earlier than necessary, he asked “May I ask why you were searching for me?’

“General’s orders,” Reyes shrugged. “You and I are to be shipped off with a few others from an outpost over to take part in the SEP.”

“SEP?”

“Soldier Enhancement Program,” Reyes explained. Without waiting for an invitation, the man sank down onto Jack’s bed, right next to the blond. Jack shuffled uncomfortably, angling his body just so to face the man. And to stop him from getting any closer to the pillow and what lay underneath. Reyes continued “It’s supposed to be some highly experimental thing. Making super soldiers - can you believe it?”

Jack arched an eyebrow, “Is that even possible?”

“No idea, but if they say they can do it - and if it will help in putting the omnics out of commission for good - why not give it a chance?” Reyes asked.

“Sounds sketchy,” Jack said.

“That’s why  _ we’re  _ going; throw a few of the expendable folk, just to see if it’ll work, stuff like that...” Reyes pointed out. “Look man. You’re the only other guy here who’s going. I don’t know you yet but I would like to - makes it easier for me if there’s a familiar face around when I get turned into a human pincushion for some weird-ass experiment.”

A chuckle escaped Jack, crinkling the corner of soft blue eyes. Carefully, he unlaced his fingers from where he had been twisting them in a nervous heap.

“Guess we can’t exactly say no…?”

“Think of it this way,” Reyes drawled, leaning back onto his elbows. “If we get out alive, we’ll be supermen who can probably tear Bastions in half with our bare hands and all the ladies will fawn over us.”

“And if we die?”

“Then the only woman who will be fawning over me will be my mother and she will be bawling her eyes out - in grief.” Reyes said, adding on the last with but a slight tilt of his head in Jack’s direction. “I take it you have a woman who will do the same? Being the typical American dreamboat and all…?”

Jack barked a laugh, harsh, it shook his shoulders and he hunched up a little tighter. Ignoring the way Reyes’ brows crinkled together, he said “Never liked parties, never had a date.” Taking a deep breath, Jack shrugged. “Never liked women, not in the uh…  _ romantic _ sense you’re talking about, anyway. And mom’s...well, we say ‘across the sea’. So yeah, no one’s gonna cry over me when I…” He swallowed “ _ Go _ .”

A hand clapped him on the shoulder, shaking him from his reverie. Twisting his head, Jack met Reyes’ soft chestnut eyes. They reminded him of the brown citrine brooch that his mother used to wear, rich, glimmering and dark, with golden threads weaved in with the browns, setting them alight.

“How ‘bout this, Morrison...” Reyes said. “If you die, I’ll cry at your funeral, okay?” He stretched his hand out, hovering in the air, an offer.

“And what about you?” Jack asked, eyeing the hand.

“What  _ about _ me?”

“Reyes, come on. This ain’t fair, you cry at my funeral and I don’t know what to do at yours.”

“I like flowers,” Reyes grinned. “Snowdrops are my favourite.”

Jack arched an eyebrow. Of all the flowers there were, he had least expected the dainty snow white flowers that drooped from rich emerald stalks. Then again there was something enchanting about them, like butterflies folding their wings on their backs, turning them to the sun. He supposes he could get some - if it came to it.

Finally he huffed, giving in. Taking the hand, Jack gave it a firm shake before Reyes locked them in a grip similar to when people did thumb wars. Deftly, he pulled their interlocked fingers apart to bump his fist against Jack’s.

He supposes they were partners now.

 

...

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> A little side-head cannon thing: That the SEP chose soldiers based on expendability, not based on looks and skill (Okay, maybe a little). But the majority of soldiers they took to the experimental facility were probably rookies and/or soldiers they didn't care enough about on the front lines.


	3. Lost but Won

Jack forgets then, how long it was before he picked up the Mauser once more. Weapons and most (if not all) personal effects were prohibited during the SEP, forcing him to place the family heirloom into storage. Or more accurately, with Gabriel’s things. Jack didn’t have a family, and his home had long been flattened - not as if he would have wanted to go back if offered the chance. So when Gabriel had asked if he needed a place to store his things, at least until they were free to retrieve them, Jack had readily accepted.

It wasn’t easy, living life without the handgun. Not a week into the SEP and Jack had begun to realise how much he relied on having the weapon; perhaps not as a means of self defense, and not as...the _ other _ thing, but rather, a tool he used to ground himself much like how his father used to use a fidget cube. Where he once ran his fingers along the ridges of the box chamber, trace the carvings of feathery silver ferns, now he was left with connecting the line of bruising needle punctures up along his arm. Gabriel had been a great help in distracting his mind from the endless cycle of ‘intense nausea’, ‘intense training’, ‘abyssal sleep’ and back again. The dark man regaled tales of his exploits in the streets of L.A., he talked about how his sisters wanted to set up a bakery, how his friends would probably grow green with envy once he came out of SEP.

With ease, Gabriel also drew out Jack’s life on a farm in a little corner on the outskirts of Bloomington, Indiana. Soon, the blond began talking about the animals, which were his best friends (and which were assholes), what he did when he was bored (not churn milk, despite what you might think), and life as it was, living surrounded by endless golden plains that constantly bowed to the wind in a never ending dance that swerved and swayed. Gabriel listened when Jack told him about the magical sounds the fields made during that time, the alluring shimmers and waves through the plains that made them ripple like fur on a cat’s back.

Finally, he had Jack tell him about the stars. Where in L.A., the afterglow of blazing spotlights and neon signs fogged out their celestial light, Indiana had been left mostly free of that, allowing the distant galaxies to reign supreme across the imperial blue of the night sky. It wasn’t long before the inspectors of the facility found the duo’s room covered in diagrams of the stars, each point meticulously placed with regards to their companions, creating tapestries of constellations weaved in wavering pencil lines and smudged fingerprints. Jack, afraid of being reprimanded, had been ready to wash the drawing away. But with an adamant Gabriel glaring daggers at anyone that got close to the mural, and the inspectors too amazed to give a damn, Jack was allowed to continue his work - even  _ encouraged _ .

It was a strange feeling Jack mused later on, to be able to create instead of destroy. As he put another point on the ever growing star chart, he wondered if this was what life was like before the omnics had crushed his farm and killed his family. The life he had before that ‘incident’ was all a blur, but deep in the darkest recesses of his mind, he hoped it had been like this. Even with the pain that constantly accompanied each round of injections, the soreness that walked hand-in-hand with every training session he survived, if he had Gabriel to talk to and the mural to work on…

Life could be pretty good, actually.

It was too bad he wasn’t fool enough to believe this could last. Even if the SEP was mostly secluded and hidden away from the outside world, it did not mean that the war stopped raging. It did not mean, that for the moment, people would stop dying. It did not mean, that the Earth would stop turning, changing.

He and Gabriel had gotten closer ever since their little exchange in the barracks. They became fast friends, and then best friends. Where one was, the other could usually be found nearby. They talked, they argued, made up, beat each other up in training sessions, beat  _ others _ up in training sessions and laughed together like there was no tomorrow. They were good together, an unspoken law that grew between them until even the dullest recruit could feel it in their bones:  _ if you go, I go _ . It wasn’t a surprise when one day, the duo left the room hand-in-hand.

It was less of a surprise when both graduated SEP and were sent back to the frontlines together. After all, it was in each other’s company that the human race began to emerge victorious. Gabriel had the mind of a genius tactician, he plotted and planned, spending days at a time trying to carve a path to their salvation. Jack on the other hand, rallied men and women under Gabriel’s banner, encouraging them with words and a radiant face that all was not yet lost, that they had a  _ chance _ .

All they needed was a little faith.

Time passed. A sniper, a crusader, a dwarf, a specialist and a demolitions expert joined their little escapade. Together, they began to turn the tide. The omnics lost ground, even surrendered, the UN began to acknowledge their presence - and so did the people. Gabriel gained support, Jack gained an even larger family.

He supposes this is where it all began.

Each new name he learned, he copied into a book. When he or she died, that name was crossed off. Ever so slowly, despite the constant wins, despite victory sitting just beyond the horizon, the names that were crossed out began to increase, until one day, a single page had but all its names crossed out. Jack never told Gabriel, he kept the book hidden in a secret compartment at the bottom of his locker, nestled beside the Mauser which he no longer takes out.

He tells himself he doesn’t need to, that there are plenty of bullets on the field waiting to find their home in his head. But not once did any of them reach him. And slowly the list of names continued to get crossed out, name after name, day after day. Until one day, it stopped.

It took a moment to realise the sirens outside his room were not the sound of an alarm, but just people ringing it for the sake of it. That the screams, bloodcurdling and roaring, were not death throes but cheerful shouts filled with tears and the release of so much pent up pain and anger. For a moment, all Jack could do was sit up in his bed, with the sheets tied around his naked body as he listened with all his might, anticipating the sound of gunfire, the creaking hums of machines created for death.

“Sunshine?” a voice groaned beside him, and Jack jumped, forgetting the lump that he had fallen asleep with. “What’s wrong?”

“N-nothing Gabe, it’s nothing.” Twisting to better pull the sheet around himself, he tucked himself back into Gabriel’s side. Dark muscular arms circled him, holding him in place. Strange, even with the constant heat the other man radiated, Jack still felt... _ cold _ .

“You’re shaking.” Gabriel murmured.

“Just…surprised,” Jack admitted.

“Ah, V-day.” Gabriel hummed, carding a hand through Jack’s golden hair. “You’d think that after all the shit we’ve been through, these guys would at least want to sleep in.”

In response, Jack only shrugged, burying himself deeper into the warm embrace.

Weird. Unnatural. For once Jack was not crawling knee-high through mud and blood, for once he did not have to hold the rifle to his eye, to have blood gushing from his fingers as the wounded soldier under him gasped for breath. It was over, just like that. People were allowed to go home, to go back to their loved ones. Arrangements were made, people chattering about dates they were leaving and where they were going.

Their voices followed Jack out as he made his way back to his room and to his locker. With stealth garnered from years on the field, he undid the secret compartment and retrieved both book and Mauser, and made his way to the roof.

A moonless night. The stars stretched for miles in all directions, but today, Jack paid them no heed. With legs swinging over the edge of the roof and his hands in his lap, Jack flipped through the book of names he had kept with him. Page after scrunched up page greeted his eyes, some were splattered with dried blood, others were ripped. But each name was still visible, even if there was a straight and cutting line right through their name. Here was one page where all the names had been crossed, and then another, and another. Out of fifty-four pages, thirty-nine had been fully crossed out. Their names stared accusingly at Jack from the page, he closed the book and set it aside.

And swapped it for the Mauser. The handgun still fit snugly in the palm of his hand, it’s weight, suddenly twice - if not  _ thrice _ \- as heavy as when he had last handled it. 

Pulling open the chamber, he eyed the silver bullet that had been left inside, it’s long cylindrical casing glowing under the shimmering starlight. Locking it all back into place, he hefted the weapon, and placed the muzzle to his temple.

_ One _ .

Hammer into place with a satisfying click.

_ Two _ .

Wind picked up, tugging at hair and the pages of the book that flipped open by his side, flashing through rows upon rows of names.

_ Three _ .

Finger around the trigger, soft on embossed ferns that had started to fade.

_ Four _ .

Blue eyes that had been fixed on the pinpricks of light glowing above looked away, then slid closed.

_ Fi- _

“Sunshine?”

Jack pulled the gun from his head, tying it to his thigh holster with practised ease even as Gabriel cleared the last step up onto the roof. With his back to the other man, he did not see the narrowing of eyes, the sudden tension that gripped the shoulders. He did however, hear the slow measured steps that approached. The rustle of cloth as Gabriel took a seat beside Jack, picking up the discarded notebook as he did so.

“You wrote down all their names,” Gabriel said. It was not a question.

“They deserve to be remembered,” Jack returned.

“The admins will want to see this,” Gabriel raised the book, holding it between them. “Too many are missing, too many names forgotten. This may help them find people, even give closure to the families of the dead...” He paused. “Can I?”

“Sure.”

He averted his eyes as Gabriel stored the notebook in a back pouch, tried not to feel the silent cries of those names that he still couldn’t get out of his head. He didn’t resist as Gabriel pulled him closer to his side, one callused palm on his waist, flooding him with a heat that nipped at the cold still hard around his heart.

Minutes passed, two sets of eyes tracing all the constellations in the sky as they had done so once in a tiny dorm in some experimental facility a long time ago. Finally Gabriel spoke.

“They’re planning on making Overwatch official.”

Jack twisted so that he could look at Gabriel, brows scrunched up in concern. “Overwatch was only ever a team of people who wanted to do what was right. What makes us so different from all the other squads out there who risked their lives? Why make us official?”

“We had the highest successful mission rate out of all the other teams,” Gabriel shrugged. “Jackie, you can’t deny that Overwatch became something when we weren’t looking. We were the tip of the lance, the people who would go where no man or woman would ever go.” He swallowed, as if measuring his words. “We became  _ hope _ to them. Heroes, if you will. And they want that now, more than ever as the world recovers.”

“No rest for the weary,” Jack grumbled.

A laugh escaped Gabriel and he ruffled his partner’s fluffy golden hair. “That’s right, Sunshine. By the way, I meant to come warn you. Those suits have their eyes on you to be  _ the _ Strike-Commander.”

“What!?” Jack jumped, tensed. The Mauser rattled uncomfortably in it’s holster on his thigh. “But you’re the commander! I’m just- I’m nobody! Why?”

“Sunshine, listen to me.” Gabriel interrupted, pulling Jack’s head down until they were bumping foreheads. “You’re  _ not _ nobody. You’re the boy from Indiana that survived a Bastion attack when he was sixteen. You then became the man who survived SEP and got turned into a supersoldier. You helped  _ me _ convince the higher ups that I wasn’t crazy. That they should take a leap of faith - to  _ trust  _ me and my harebrained ideas.  _ Hell _ , you convinced Ana not to kill Torbjorn and Gerard not to bail the first chance he got. You consoled Reinhardt when Balderich died, talked Liao through a breakdown when she thought she was done!”

Gabriel was gasping for breath, words tumbling out of mouth in an endless stream. With firm hands, he grasped onto Jack’s cheeks, thumbs brushing under his cerulean blue eyes, tracing his lashes and caressing his skin.

“You’re not nobody Jack,” he whispered. “You deserve this promotion. For pulling us through, for...for  _ everything _ .”

“And what about you?” Small, hushed, barely a puff of breath that escaped Jack’s lips.

“What  _ about _ me?”

Jack shoved him back until they were an arm’s length apart, pale hands gripping onto Gabriel’s shoulders in what could only be a painful way.

“ _ You _ , Gabriel,  _ are _ the Strike-Commander.” He punctuated each word slowly, carefully. “I’m not taking the position just because people think I need recognition. They forget that it was  _ you _ who paved the way to our victory, that  _ you _ gave up so much to be where you are - your friends back in L.A., your career, your  _ family _ ! That  _ you _ lie asleep at night fretting over the lives you send into battle, that every strike on your shotgun is a  _ successful mission without a single death _ ! It was  _ you _ who made sure our team was always in top shape, it was  _ you _ who gave us -  _ me _ \- purpose.”

Leaning back on his haunches, Jack took Gabriel’s chin and made the other man  _ look _ at him.

“Gabe. I’m not going to be Strike-Commander. It’s not right.”

And for some reason, the weapon at his thigh seemed to grow lighter.

If but only for a moment.

 

...

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Side HC #2: The original strike team was a VERY small team of survivors and misfits that banded together - much like how you formed your team in the Dragon Age/Mass Effect series. Since they were basically a 'strike' team, they had to be light, fast-moving, quick to react to the situation. However the UN were all like hurdur politics, they basically turned what was supposed to be a small efficient military team into this blown-out-of-proportion thing.
> 
> Also: I gave Gerard the profession of Demo expert and Liao as Specialist.


	4. Woad to Ruin

Sunrise. Sunset. The stars came out, and they hid again. The moon continued her yearly cycles, showing her face every once in a long while, overthrowing the light of her subjects into the abyss whenever she did. And Jack watched it all as the new Strike-Commander of Overwatch. Despite his argument with the people in charge, he had still been made the leader, while Gabriel became a secondary commander of a covert ops unit: Blackwatch.

Where Overwatch was once a strike team, it was now a global peacekeeping force. They had their own military, research departments, medical units, and people. Endless amounts of people, and more signing up each day. And even though Athena was present and capable of aiding him, Jack still kept a book with all the names of agents and people that passed through the threshold of the base.

One book grew to two, then three, and sometimes Gabriel would find him sitting alone in their shared quarters going through the list of names to find the one that had died, crossing out the name with a line. Jack never told Gabriel how it felt, as if with every stroke of his pen, he condemned that name. But he suspected Gabriel knew.

And he also suspected a few other things. As time passed, the Mauser would mysteriously disappear or reappear in places. Where in the morning Jack would sometimes leave it by the coffee table while he readied himself in his uniform, he would return to retrieve it only to find it gone, reappearing later in the night under a stack of papers or - sometimes even - under the sofa. He never questioned it, but each time he checked the chamber just in case, always sighing in relief when he found the silver bullet still left untouched in it’s rightful place. He could always feel Gabriel’s eyes on him whenever he retrieved the Mauser, whenever he hefted the weapon, and whenever he checked the chamber.

However, not once did the man ever question Jack’s intention.

Every night they would go to bed together, Gabriel would pull Jack close, sometimes they would talk about their day, what they ate, what they held, who pissed them off. And so on. But as the world recovered, war gave way to anarchy as rogue groups bared their fangs at governments they deemed were not worthy enough to lead. Jack was roped into more political and public affairs to calm the angered people while Gabriel was dragged away to do his ‘ _ job _ ’. They saw each other less and less, and for the longest time Jack thought they were done, pulled apart by their respective workloads, letting what they had slip away like sand from a seashore, scattered in the great endless sea. And so he spent more time alone in his office. Sorting through sheafs and sheafs of papers until the words began to blur together and until the letters seemed to be branded on the inside of his eyes.

The Mauser soon became his constant companion during this time of hardship. With Jack seeing Gabriel less and less - or barely seeing at all - it seemed the weapon was always right where he needed it to be. And now, most of his agents would find Jack with the Mauser strapped to his thigh and resting comfortably in its holster. Now and again, Jack would take the weapon out and twirl it in his hands, spinning the weapon on it’s trigger guard or even try to balance the muzzle of the weapon on his finger… But he would always stop shy of bringing it to his temple.

It became a point of pride. And spite.

What with everyone claiming he was no good, that he had no place to lead as he does, Jack became more engrossed in his work, spending days at a time in his office while simultaneously doing what he could to assure his people that he was still fit for duty. Still, harsh words whispered behind closed doors and around corners soon took their toll and so the Mauser at his side became heavier and heavier as days passed. But Jack held on with stubborn hands; Gerard’s death, Talon, Deadlock, Shimada, Null Sector, Uprising. He took it all and ran himself ragged, never once considering that he had begun to become as worn and faded than even the ferns engraved on the grip of the handgun.

He supposes that by the time he realized, it was a bit too late. Perhaps  _ far _ too late. Another soldier dead. Another name to cross. This time, Jack did not have to flick through the many books he had, after all he knew exactly where this one’s name was.

_ Ana Amari _ .

Jack never thought he’d have to strike down one of the names of his closest friends. No, that wasn’t right. Ana wasn’t just a friend, she was the  _ sister _ he never had. They had been brought together during a time of hardship and they looked out for each other, she consoled him, joked with him, and he helped her whenever he could. Sometimes they didn’t talk, sometimes they did, but silence and action weighed the same as words and looks, they pulled each other through like children tied together in a three-legged race.

And so it was with all this in mind that he helped carry the empty casket to it’s resting place. Setting it down in the earth and folding the flag with precise, military crispness befitting that of a soldier of Ana’s calibre. He held his face as still as possible as he passed the flag on, kept his shoulders rigid as he listened to Gabrielle Adawe speak of her honours, as each of Ana’s friends shared a memory.

When finally Jack was left blissfully alone, the sun was on it’s way below the horizon, leaving him with nothing but the whistling wind and the tall grass that swayed like rising and falling waves. He spent hours looking over her grave, tracing the bold letters of her name again and again and staring at the little dolls that Fareeha had left on her mother’s grave. Even when the darkness began to engulf the graveyard, he did not move, waiting instead for the light of the stars to bring out her name. It was with their nightly chill and numb fingers that he brought out the Mauser once more. Slinging it out of it’s holster and twirling it once in his hands before steady fingers circled the grip, a thumb landed on the hammer, and an index finger laid on the trigger guard.

He raised the weapon to his temple. And counted to five.

_ One _ .

The crickets were loud, but they hushed as the hammer was flicked into place.

_ Two _ .

Wind tugged at his hair. He was glad his service cap was still tucked under an arm, it might have gotten blown away.

_ Three _ .

The extremely drab coat he wore, colours tuned to befit the morose setting slapped against his legs. The medals on his chest weighed heavily over his heart, he never understood the purpose of them.

_ Four _ .

He wondered what Ana would say.

_ Fi _ -

“Mr. Morrison?”

Jack flicked the gun away from his temple, twirling it once in his hand before stuffing it back into his side holster. He did not have to look to the side to know who had spoke, the blue light emitted by the Chronal-Accelerator on her chest was a dead giveaway. Instead, the Strike-Commander kept his lips pursed, his chin up, and his shoulders square.

For a moment, there was nothing but silence between them. Jack did not know what he could say, much less  _ should _ say. Lena on the other hand was uncertain. She had just witnessed her commanding officer, the man who she looked up to, the man that was worshiped by many around the globe put a gun to his own head. The crickets began singing again, filling the night with their melodious chirping.

Finally, Lena spoke: “Does anyone else know, sir?”

“Just you.”

“Can I help in any way?” she asked.

“...No.” Jack whispered. “I’m sorry.”

“I…” she hesitated, sides warring with each other, until she settled for “Okay.”

“Was there anything…?” Jack went on, determined to leave this in the past.

“Blackwatch Commander Reyes was looking for you,” Lena said. “I think he was headed to your office.”

“Understood.” Deftly, he replaced his service cap on his head, bringing it low over his eyes. “Crap.”

“Sir?” Lena asked.

“It’s starting to rain, we should go.”

Lena blinked, there was not a speck of cloud in the night sky. “Sir, it’s not - ” But she cut herself off as soon as she spots the glimmering drops that stream down his pale cheeks. She swallowed, bundling her hands behind her back and squaring her small shoulders before saying “Yes, of course sir.”

With Lena in tow, Jack led the way back inside, trying not to feel the way the Mauser weighed down his leg, forcing him to limp slightly.

 

...


	5. Leave No Man Behind

“Still here Lena?”

“Yes sir.”

“Don’t you have somewhere else to be?”

“I have reports to write,” Lena explained. “I write better here than anywhere else.”

“In my office?” Jack deadpanned.

Lena’s only response was to grin from ear to ear and Jack could only attempt to stifle the chuckle that escaped his lips. He knew very well what she was doing, it was hard not to have guessed. Ever since she had found him with a gun to his head in front of Ana’s grave, Lena had not left his side since. Jack had tried to chase the young girl away, perhaps even have her deployed at another Watchpoint, but she would always suddenly reappear back by his side.

People believed she was vying for the place of Second in Command and soon rumor turned into hurtful words behind the young girl’s back. But not once did Lena spare them a glance, holding her head high and her shoulders back as she kept pace with the Strike-Commander, trading jabs and discussing plans. With her help, Jack managed to pull himself back together...somewhat. He at least hoped that he did, it was hard to tell, what with everything falling apart around him.

Like a spark buried deep under the dried leaves of a forest, Ana’s death had set off a chain of events that threatened to engulf Overwatch in an inferno. Agents were leaving left and right and missions were constantly being botched. World governments and the UN called for his head and not for the first time in a day, Jack was forced to disarm a man with a knife to his throat. Lena knocked the next one out unconscious. Jack took down the last one of day while he was in his own bed, slamming the intruder out the second story window to be picked up by security who stared at him dumbfounded from the tarmac. Where peace once walked like a Queen in her castle, the Watchpoint soon became a fortress, a prison where war threatened to break out. With a second Omnic Crisis lurking on the horizon and the names that were constantly crossed out from a notebook under his bed, Jack felt that war might as well already be upon them.

But there were some days - like today - that he was allowed to speak to Peace like an old friend. And on those days, the sun shone brighter and the Mauser at his side was as light as the stalks of grass he once picked off his parent’s farm.

“Lena?”

“Yes sir?”

For a moment, there was nothing but silence, the continuous scribbling of pens in the open office, the fluttering of papers and the slightly softer pings as emails on tablets were sent off.

“Is there…” He taps his pen against the desk. “Is there anything you want on your grave when you…” he swallowed “ _ Go _ ?”

Lena paused, spinning her pen in dainty fingers as she thought. Finally she said, “A tea cup.”

Jack blinked. “A tea cup?” he asked.

“I always liked ‘em posh tea cups,” Lena explained. “Made from fragile china, with their gold rims and hand painted roses. I always thought they were…”

“Magical.” Jack finished.

“Yeah.”

They returned to their respective papers, Jack turning over Lena’s confession in his head. A few more minutes passed in relative silence. Outside, agents chattered, and birds sang. The sun cast its golden rays through the occasional clouds that swam across the big blue sky. Inside, papers fluttered, once in awhile Lena or Jack would get up to stretch their legs and get a cup of something to drink, but they would always return to pick up pens and flick through thin sheets printed full of words. Finally, Lena broke the silence.

“What about you sir?”

“What about me?” Jack asked.

“What do  _ you _ want on your grave when you go?”

Jack put down his pen, tenting his fingers together as he thought deeply. In the past, all he would have ever wanted was someone to cry at his grave when he left. But now… he wasn’t so sure anymore. The man that had promised to cry for him was always away, where once was words of love and an unspoken rule of togetherness, now there was cold glares and dismissive words. There was no hand-holding, there was no soft brush or tentative hug. There was nothing.

Abruptly his mind jumped back, to a star chart painted in wavering pencil lines and smudged fingerprints. His mind’s eye traced the lines back, undoing each stroke, erasing each star, unweaving each constellation. And then he was going backwards, tracing bruising dots along his skin, footsteps in deserted towns and on war torn battlefields, back and back, past an abandoned barn filled with blood, to the day before the first sirens sounded.

And he was standing amongst towering stalks of gold that reached for the sky. They were three times his height, shielding him from the outside world with leaves that tickled his arms and tugged at his fingers. Running through them, their rustle thrummed in his very bones and crinkled under his trainers. But he paid them no heed back then, running and running until he cleared the fields to stand on the edge of his parent’s farm. Out of breath, panting, he stretched his hands high above his head and yelled over the endless golden plains that bowed under the gusts of wind that bellowed over them. Rippling with wave upon wave, a shiver snaked up his spine, and then he was smiling, laughing.

“Sir?”

“The tassel from a corn plant.” Jack said immediately.

Lena jerked her head up from her work, blinking round hazel eyes at her commanding officer. “Is that the thing on the very top of the plant?” she asked, bewildered.

“Yes it is, Lena.” Jack chuckled. “Yes it is.”

Smile was met with smile. Blue eyes turned away, focusing on the sun that had begun to set, showering the base with the remains of its warmth, the wayward leaves of weeping willows that were carried on the wind. Lena, half hiding under her tablet watched with quiet curiosity. For but a second, she did not see the ageing and weary leader that she had come to know, but the boy he might have been were he not weighed down by the anchor of command. With hair as gold as if touched by Midas’ own hands and a faraway look in his eyes that seemed to look forever over the horizon...She dreaded the day that she would have to finally procure a tassel from the top of a Corn Plant to lay on a granite stone.

A knock on the door pulled them both out of their daydreams. The bubble that had encased the office popping with the way eyes blinked in sudden alertness and muscles tensed.

“Blackwatch Commander Reyes to see you,” Athena announced over the speakers. The low hum of her voice, the herald that Peace had left.

Jack and Lena exchanged looks, and it was with heavy steps that the former made his way around his table to open the door, greeting Reyes’ stern face with a clean mask, emotionless, as unmoving as carved marble. But even then, Lena could see the slight droop in his shoulders, the way his hands wavered, only to slide to a well worn Mauser strapped to a muscular thigh. Upon seeing this, Lena came to stand by her Commander, and between their two bodies, tugged his hand away from the handle of the heavy weapon.

By the time Blackwatch Commander Reyes’ eyes had fallen between them, Jack was pushing a credit chit into the girl’s hand and shooing her out the door, ignoring the way his former partner narrowed his eyes at him.

“I take it you’ll be back later Lena,” Jack said calmly, granting her a small smile that seemed to tremble “So do you mind getting us some dinner while Reyes and I have our chat?”

“Sure thing sir,” Lena chirped. “Any preference?”

“Something from town.”

With a muted nod, the girl went, cradling the credit chit to her chest. And it was with an eerie silence that she left the building, occasionally darting glances back at the Commander’s office when she heard no shouts as she might’ve expected. The halls were ominously empty too, more than once Lena thought she saw the shift of snickering shadows behind lurking pillars and tall walls. So it was perhaps understandable when she all but ran from the premises, not looking back until she was tucked in a cab heading deep into town.

What happened next would forever be burned into her mind.

As she twisted in the backseat, pulling at her seatbelt to look at the Watchpoint growing smaller and smaller with every turn of the cab’s wheels, she could’ve sworn she heard a low and ear-piercing whistle before the top of the building all but burst outwards in an unfurling and roaring ball of flame. Debris and dust showered the air, even in the cab Lena choked. Screaming and kicking, she demanded that the driver turn around and bring her back.

She pushed past when security tried to stop her from going in, she swerved when the fire threw up a wall of flame to bar her entry, and she ran with smoke thick in her lungs until she could run no more. Standing in a field of stones and flame, with fire seedlings spiraling in the air, dancing a waltz of death and carnage with crackling laughs.

Lena would never remember exactly what happened after. Her friends would tell her she was brought unconscious from the building having inhaled too much smoke. They would tell her that her commander was dead and Overwatch was soon to follow, and that later she all but fled the medbay to head to the only place she knew where she would find the one she sought.

And it was with muffled glee when she found the man with golden hair scorched a starlight silver hunched over a stone in the ground. But relief turned to stunned shock as she watched the little gun he always kept by his side, with it’s rigid box chamber, it’s silver embossed handgrip and it’s steadfast barrel, lifted to nuzzle gently against the man’s head like someone might do a lover. And in her mind, she counted to five.

_ One _ .

The wizened, bandaged hand was shaking, trembling fingers locked tight around a grip that had long since lost its grandeur.

_ Two _ .

Wind tugged at him, pulling at the biker jacket he had found in some dingy, abandoned corner. Still, he stood firm, and cocked the hammer.

_ Three _ .

Lena could see the name on the stone now as she pelted over the hills, sweat glimmering on her head. There were snowdrops at the head of the grave she noted, bobbing their white heads like weeping widows.

_ Four _ .

Wrinkled finger slipped from trigger guard to trigger. Lena filled her smoke-scorched lungs with freezing air.

_ Fi _ -

“J A C K !”

The man turned, but the gun never left his head, the muzzle hugging possessively around his temple. And so Lena stopped, just out of arm's reach, clad in medical green robes and her favourite worn leather jacket, with hands balled at her sides in tight fists as she tried to stem the tide of tears that threatened to fall from her eyes.

“Don’t…” she rasped. “Don’t do this.”

“And why not?” his voice was deeper, harsher and Lena winced. It was like grinding sandpaper together, harsh on her sensitive ears.

“There are people,” Lena began. “People who can help, people who sti-”

“No one can help!” Jack snarled, Lena took an involuntary step back.

He turned away, blue eyes trained on the stars above just beginning to appear. Steeling herself, the young girl took a step forward.

“Wait! Just…  _ wait _ , will you Jack?”

“And why should I?” he snapped back.

“ _ Because it might be worth it if you wait! _ ” she screamed. Tears flooded from her eyes, her nose ran, her shoulders trembled, but this time she stood her ground. And it was with all this, with breath rasping in her lungs that she cried “I heard somewhere once, that death doesn’t discriminate between the sinners and the saints, that it’ll come, and take and take and take...”

“Lena -”

“But we’re still here!” she yelled over him. “We keep living anyway!”

“I  _ can’t _ live anymore!”

“ _ So what _ ? We rise and we will fall, we make our mistakes! All of us do!”

“There is nothi-”

“There’s a  _ reason _ I’m still alive Jack! Why  _ you _ are still alive!” she screeched. “They were my friends too, and I loved them! I watched them leave,  _ I _ watched them _ die _ !”

He was standing there now, the Mauser slack against his temple staring at her with round blue eyes that had their tears long since dried up. He was struggling, trembling, wavering between ending this all now, and seeing the next horizon…

So it was with the gentle push of the wind that Lena whispered “But I’m still alive, I’m still here.” she sniffled, wiping her nose on the back of one hand. “And I think there’s a  _ reason _ \- a reason why the world still wanted me alive, when everything I once held dear to me is dead. So even if it takes years before I understand why, even if it takes the  _ rest of my life _ …

“I’m willing to wait for it.”

Rough hands pulled her into a hug. Lena bawled her eyes into the trembling shoulder, small fingers digging into rough leather as she held on for dear life, crying over the friends she had lost on missions, screaming over every innocent life that did not have to go but left anyway and she cried, with relief that the man before her was not going yet, that he was still here, that maybe - _ just maybe _ \- he would hold on long enough to see the next sunrise, and the next, and the next one after.

Finally, with hiccuping sobs, they pulled apart. And with a twirl of the weapon still in his hand, Jack held the handle of the Mauser up for Lena to take.

“There is one bullet in the chamber,” he rasped. “Keep it for me. So that maybe one day, I will find out the reason why I never used it.”

“Okay.”

She took the Mauser. And he left.

 

...

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> I actually have the angst ending written out but I'm wondering how to present it. Since the Happy and Angst ending both have a similar start, should I just post that in a chapter and then you guys get :another: short chapter choosing which ending you want? Or how do you guys want it?


	6. Now, We Are

Photos on a wall with flowers at their base.

Photos in a locket over a dear lover’s breast.

Photos over a fireplace watching an empty room.

Jack doesn’t have the latter two but he’s seen plenty of the first, and every year he sees plenty more. Every year he will walk the same steps up the grassy hill, listen to the sashay of grass as they bend in the breeze and play with the crickets. Every year there is a doll on Ana’s grave, with black beady eyes and a soft tummy for hugs. And every year there is a vase of snowdrops on Gabriel’s, pristine and soft with drooping snow white petals.

But every year there is nothing for Jack,

but a single letter in a crisp white envelope.

And every year he takes it and reads it under the starlight that loom over his shoulder like many curious children. He smiles under his mask at the bubbly greeting, he laughs at tales of playful adventures and he bites his lips and fights for calm as flimsy sheets of paper tell of people that didn’t have to go but left anyway. But he always settles back down when he hears of the Mauser.

Like a man hearing from a parted friend.

He reads about the efforts to restore it to its former glory. He reads about the oiling, the polishing and the repainting. But most of all, he reads about how the single silver bullet is still where it was. That it awaits his return and equally awaits what he intends for it.

And so with the grass bending around his feet as if stretching to see his actions, he writes his reply to the only other who knows that he is still alive. He sends her well wishes, and matches tale with tale; of secretive endeavours in abandoned bases and of escapades in long forgotten facilities like an adventurer in a tomb. Perhaps he is one he thinks, after all his latest safe haven  _ is _ a tomb. Of course he assures that there are no mummies where he sleeps; yet he tells of other undead in the form of nightly terrors that dog his sleep like hounds after a rabbit.

Where he can, he constantly reassures. Where he can, he consoles and advises.

He writes of people he has lost and that although they are gone, their memory still lives on in his mind and in the rows of names he keeps in books buried under a stone tile in his tomb. It is only on this one night of many that he allows himself to sit and think. And ponder. And reflect. And for the this one night alone among many, he will allow himself to rest with the stars tapping at his shoulders and playing with his hair as he writes his thoughts onto a flimsy paper to be sealed into a cracked letter come morning.

For this year, he writes of Ana and Gabriel.

Ana and Gabriel, who he finds again amongst the hot sands and swaying palms of Egypt, with guns in their hands and fire in their eyes.

Ana and Gabriel, who stand strong with the dust devils tugging at their capes and runic trails left in the sand to mark their dance.

Ana and Gabriel, who are not wholly happy to see him.

He hesitates but writes about how the former is weary but has continued her oath to protect all that she held - and still holds - dear. He writes about how the latter has changed his name, called himself the Reaper, and embarked on a journey for revenge.

He pauses, taps his pen against the page, and darts a quick look to the cloudless night sky. The endless sea of stars stare back curiously.

Turning back, he writes.

That he is not unhappy with his friends, not unhappy with the outcome of his search.

On the contrary, he has never felt so at  _ ease _ . It takes him a few more minutes to place the feeling but finally he recognizes it for what it truly was and he breaks into a laugh, hiccuping and wiping tears from his eyes as it finally dawns on him:

_ Relief _ .

And he has to stop, and realise that because  _ for once _ he was not the last man standing.  _ For once _ he was not the sole survivor.  _ For once _ he could rewrite their names in his book and  _ know _ that even if they  _ hate him _ ,  _ they _ are alive. And that was all that mattered to him.

With a smile, he replaces his letter in its envelope, seals it with firm fingers and lays it on the granite stone just as the first rays of sunlight peak over the horizon. Vertigo strikes him as he stands and for a moment he reels.

_ The grass is no longer green but taller, brighter, regal stalks of gold that bow in the wind like nobles to a passing queen. The air is mostly silent, not even crickets dare sing here but was that…? The sound of gentle waves lapping at a shore. And before he can think, he is moving forward. _

The clanging of metal gates break him from the dream, and before the guards have begun their first circuit of the day, he is long gone.

 

* * *

 

_ “Jackie!” _

_ Jack perked his head up from where he had been wrapping a bandage around a wounded patient’s leg. Smith was waving at him from outside the open tent that belonged to the medics, the soldier was covered in soot, dirt,  _ blood _. But even as the blond watched, the weary soldier casually lit a stick of cigarette and lifted it to his lips to take a puff. When he was done, Smith gestured again, beckoning Jack to come to him. With a whispered apology to his patient and a brief word with a colleague, Jack puttered his way out of the tent, wiping bloody hands on his apron as he did so. _

_ He found Smith and his squad just waiting a little ways away, the men and women were lounging or lying over packed duffel bags or against crates filled full of supplies. With a brief shake, Jack found himself turning to face Smith. _

_ “Hey kid,” Smith grinned “How’s it going?” _

_ As an answer, Jack smooshes his head into the soldier’s chest and wraps his arms around the other’s waist, ignoring the way Smith’s fellow squad explode in cooes and awws. He buries his head tighter against holsters and kevlar armour as he feels the weary soldier hesitate, then slowly wrap his arms around his shoulders. _

_ “Hey...Jackie,” Smith puffs around his cigarette. “Come on now, I’m still here ain’t I?” _

_ Jack mutters something in reply, his voice muffled by too many layers of cloth. _

_ Smith chuckles before firmly pushing the boy back. Jack keeps his eyes downcast but Smith can see the way his eyes glimmer, the way his hands shake. As silent encouragement, he taps the boy’s chin, making Jack look at him. The soldier than cocks his own chin out and squares his shoulders, Jack mimics him, swallowing down the sniffle as he does. _

_ “Guess I can’t keep calling you a kid if you gotta be a man,” Smith drawled, abruptly his smile fades and he reaches out to hold Jack’s shoulder. “Did you practice what I been teachin’ ya?” _

_ Jack nods. _

_ “Did you remember to keep your elbows in this time?” _

_ Jack nods again. _

_ “Good man.” He ruffles the blond’s hair and Jack takes his treatment with a trembling grin. “Listen to your superiors now. Me’n the gang have to move, we’re heading South East.” Smith hesitates, fumbling for words. “Might not come back this way, what with going where we’re needed.” Jack’s eyes are falling again but Smith directs them back to his face with a gentle hand. “Hey Jackie, don’t look so glum. Look here, I’ll make you a deal. The next time we meet, whether it be in the afterlife or when this war’s over, I’ll take you to a bar alright?” _

_ “But I’m underaged!” Jack protested, wiping a suddenly runny nose. _

_ “Now see, that’s the fun of it.” Smith smiled. “If it’s after this war’s over, no one will care about your age. And if it’s in the afterlife? Who cares about age!” _

_ A soft, genuine laugh escaped Jack. _

_ “There see!” Smith abruptly bellowed. “That’s the boy I rescued!” He grabs Jack, pulling the growing boy into a hug. “You take care now Jack, stay safe.” _

First Lieutenant John Smith, US army. Died to a stray bullet in his side. Smith saved the lives of countless children on the US front and left behind a wife and two children.

 

* * *

 

Ana watches, she always has and she always will.

The feeling that prickles at the base of her hair is like a constant itch she cannot scratch. So instead she tries to find out it’s cause. She doesn’t have to look far, Jack - or Soldier: 76 as he prefers to be called these days - is not the man she once knew, nor who she thinks he is. Where before she could read him like a book whose words she knew by heart, now she looked at him and found the same book written in a language she could not comprehend. She tries her best, recognizes names and places, but the rest is gibberish, written in strange symbols she does not have the key to understanding.

As difficult as it was she still makes an attempt, furrowing her brow in concentration as she tries to decipher him. Jack doesn’t make it easy though, even if they stay within shouting distance of each other, Ana feels he has never been further. There are nights where she watch him stare off into the distance, only to recall himself as if stepping out of a freezing pool. She inquires about his drifting, but he shrugs her off, directs them both back to the mission at hand.

Ana tries not to think about the little notebooks with names he keeps in a tile under the room that is a tomb. Tries not to think about where he disappears off to once a year, every year. There are many things one learns not to ask, not because one fears the answer, but because one already knows the answer is not what they want to hear. But she must ask and with her own ears hear his answer.

So one day she asks him; Jack, what do you intend to do ‘after’?

And he says; I am a Soldier, our war is never over.

 

* * *

 

_ “Hey, Jack?” _

_ “Yeah?” _

_ “You got any plans for after?” _

_ “Probably cards with the guys, or tea with Ana-” _

_ “I meant ‘ _ after’ _ you dummie.” _

_ Jack ignores Liao in favour of maintaining his steady trotting through the barren city. Crumbled ruins lie in his way and he jogs around them, ever mindful of footfalls and tripping hazards. Liao, from her position on his back, held in a piggyback carry, was staring right over his shoulder, not that Jack could tell. Finally she huffs and taps him on his shoulder. _

_ “Hey.” _

_ “Hmm?” _

_ “You should put me down.” _

_ “No thanks.” _

_ A small breathless laugh escapes Liao followed by a full body shudder that Jack can feel even through his thick body armour. One two. One two. The distance dwindles under his feet yet stretch before him. Left right. Left right. He paces himself, breath puffing in the silence of the once busy city. Drip drop. Drip Drop. The sound follows him like a loyal afterbeat, he doesn’t ask what it is. He knows. He knows. _

_ “You supersoldiers are like metronomes sometimes.” _

_ “Metro-what?” _

_ “Metronomes, they time a beat, a rhythm, so musicians can play on time.” _

_ “Oh.” _

_ There’s dust in the air, they scatter the strange amber glow that lights the place, creating shifting light and spotted shadows. He marvels at it when he can. His run is almost leisurely with the way his speed never changes, not slow enough to be a jog, not fast enough to jostle Liao on his back. Strangely, there is no sound but the constant rasp of his breath, the thudding of his steps and the gentle clinking of armour and buckles. _

_ “Jack?” _

_ “Yeah?” _

_ “When this war is over I want pizza.” _

_ Jack laughs, his voice echoing back from empty highrises of unforgiving stone. Liao slaps him weakly on the shoulder but there is a smile on her lips. Her voice is softer now, her eyes are drooping. She knows her hair is a mess, half torn from the tight bun she likes to keep. She knows her skin is matted with blood, but she cannot find it in her to care. In a way it reminds her of the hanging scrolls her brother likes to keep; with beautiful dapples of red blooming on white rice paper. They are beautiful in their own way _

_ She falls asleep on his shoulder and to the rhythmic beats of steps thumping in an abandoned town. _

Operative Phoebe Liao, Founding member of Overwatch. Died from excessive blood loss due to bastion fire. Liao saved the lives of many soldiers on the frontline by providing endless support and supplies and left behind two younger brothers.

 

* * *

 

Angela ponders, dismisses, and ponders again.

She didn’t think she would ever see the great Ana Amari again much less the hidden figure that follows her like a shadow, revealing himself to be none other than the former Strike-Commander. But with Winston calling every able-bodied agent back to service and with them few and weak in between she supposes it was inevitable. She never doubted Jack survived the catastrophe that was the Zurich base. She never doubted her own intuition, she is a doctor after all and confidence is key. But more recently she finds herself doubting. She questions his wellbeing despite the numbers on a screen telling her he is fine. She questions the silence he chooses to adopt in the face of chaos that is a recalling.

And she questions what discussions he and Lena are having on the edge of a cliff over crashing waves and salty sprays.

Angela is a doctor, she has learnt when to pry and when to leave a situation, as long as it is in the best interest of her patient. But with Jack she finds herself against a glass wall made as if from titanium, she cannot see pass this wall and she cannot climb it. Breaking it is futile and not doing anything drives her crazy. Within three months she has exhausted three years of questions and not one brings her closer to an answer.

She worries about the distant look in his eyes.

She worries about the way he walks as if through a world only he can see.

Only Lena seems privy to his thoughts and sometimes she wished to be as close.

So finally she asks him; Jack, what do you hope for?

And he says; I am a Soldier, we only ever hope for Peace.

 

* * *

 

_ “Commander Morrison, Jack.” _

_ “Yes Gérard?” _

_ The moment the Frenchman is within range, he punches Jack right across the jaw. The blond takes it with but the smallest of grimace and grits his teeth as blood blankets his tongue. Bracing himself for a second punch that never comes, he straightens himself and looks right into Gérard’s eyes. He does not challenge the other man; his look just says he wishes to know if he was going to be hit again. _

_ Gérard tempers himself, breathing in deep through his nose. Finally, he gets himself under wraps and glares at the Commander. _

_ “When were you going to tell me?” He growls. _

_ Jack shrugs by way of answer. The past week had been a hectic rush of getting a small team to rescue Amélie from Talon while not letting the UN know a tick about what was going on. To achieve that, Jack had run himself ragged; posing as their golden poster boy when on vid calls only to throw off his duster in favour of more practical gear the moment the diplomat’s heads were turned. His desperation and rush to retrieve Gérard’s wife while keeping up appearances had taken it’s toll and the blond nursed what was left of his leg behind his desk. _

_ “I meant to tell you earlier Gérard, I’m sorry.” _

_ “Bullshit you were!” Gérard snarls. He pauses. Takes another deep breath. “Ana tells me the UN are on your ass about rescuing Amélie?” _

_ “Nothing unusual there,” Jack replies. _

_ He makes a show of sorting through the holoscreen that is his desk, his movements are easy, smooth with the ease of long practise and blunted with a supersoldier’s grace. He hopes that he has the other man fooled as Gérard makes a show of slamming his door on the way out. _

_ Not ten minutes later and the Frenchman was back and tossing a tray overflowing with food from the cafeteria and a generous helping of goodies from its vending machine right on top of his desk. _

_ “Eat.” He commands. _

_ “Gérard, I don’t-” _

_ “And get Angela to have a look at your leg after you finish. I’ll be checking in within the hour.” _

_ Jack’s stutters and protests are waved away by the Frenchman. _

_ “Jack. I know the UN were -” He pauses, reeling in the most-likely-not-so-savoury name he was about to use “- but you did it. You saved my wife against their orders and their wishes. I know you won’t let me in on the details and that you’re going to be the ever loving hardass and take all the blame by yourself but I want you to remember…” _

_ Gérard snaps a salute, crisp, a small shaky smile worming into his usually stoic facade. “You still have your friends and I’ll  _ personally  _ stand by your side when they start lighting the fire under your tail.” He lowers his hand to slap Jack on the back. “You’re a good man Jack, keep fighting the good fight.” _

_ “A good man but not a good soldier,” Jack chuckles back. _

_ “And yet they both fight for the same thing.” Gérard smiles, pats him once more on the back. “Peace is on the horizon Jackie, look to it when it breaks - I promise you, it’ll be a sight to remember.” _

Gérard Lacroix, Overwatch Agent. Killed by unknown Talon assailant in his own home. Gérard’s work against the terrorist organization saved the lives of many agents and civilians alike. May he rest in peace with his wife Amélie Lacroix.

 

* * *

 

He finds the dream so real in places. Many a time Jack mistakes it for his younger days, running recklessly through tall stalks of gold that reach their leaves to tug at his hands, his arms. But he knows these sights are different; he can feel the warmth on his skin, the tapered stalks against his fingers. The sky is always a cloudless aquamarine that gradients into a prussian blue in the distance and he focuses on that as he walks with his hands outstretched by his sides, feeling leaves siddle against the pads of his digits and draw paintings on the skin of his palm. There are no crickets here yet there is the sound of water. They lap against a shore again and again, they do not fluctuate like real waves, one hard, one soft, but maintain a steady rhythm again, and again.

Like a metronome, he thinks.

He cannot control when these visions come. Sometimes Jack is in training when it hits him, running between two high walls, he is instead running through rows of stalks swaying in the wind, their sashay ever constant and flustering about him. They beckon, they draw him in until he feels not even the pain of the paint-ball splattering against what skin he leaves unprotected. Sometimes he is sitting and watching a movie with the others when he sees cloudless blue skies instead of a hologram filled with bright images dancing with ruthless abandon. Strangely he feels no fear, no sense of apprehension, not even the slightest shiver when the visions over take him.

It is peaceful, he thinks.

The others don’t see it that way; even the newer members have begun watching him for when he drifts. Angela and Ana are particularly worried about him but he brushes both off with a mask betraying nothing. He’s had years to perfect it and neither now know enough of him to know when it is faked. He will never tell them the truth either. 

He thinks of himself as a book in a foreign language. He grants those around him a glimpse at his pages but he will never allow them time enough to study him. Most only get to see his cover before he is gone, it gives them an impression, an image to place him by. Others he shows his back, they know what he is about, what he does, but they will never know how he got to this point, what keeps him ticking.

Only one has been granted the honour of reading his pages and she does so with careful hands as if flipping through papers that might turn to dust at the slightest touch. Lena Oxton has mellowed out since the last time he saw her and Jack knows why.

She has watched everything that they had once stood for torn apart and scattered in the ashes of a blazing inferno. She listened as men in suits revoked her agent status, told her that her sacrifices ‘meant something’, left her a medal for her services and shut the door in her face. She watched friends she once called family leave one by one, many believing that what they had just could not be. She has had few to cling to, few to talk to while the world around her spirals out of control.

She lost her friends, her superiors, her job. And then she continued to lose.

The guilt of failing Mondatta still hangs heavy over her head.

But she hangs on and Jack allows her to read his pages, because where he has failed, he hopes she learns and she succeeds. She knows about the visions too, he tells her of the landscape that stretches for miles and the water he always hears just out of sight. They both know what it means and one night, Lena hands him a box tied with a bright blue ribbon.

The Mauser lies inside on a bed of soft chiffon tissue. He takes it out, marvelling at the polished auburn grip with interlocking threads of gold. The silver unfurling ferns that had been repainted, glimmering with purposeful light. The box chamber, barrel, hammer, trigger had all been oiled, polished and now stood a stoic ebony black. He twists the gun in his hand, opening the ammo chamber. The silver bullet lies snugly in there, it too had been cleaned. For a moment he takes it out and flips it.

On it’s base is etched the number 76.

He smiles, placing the bullet back into the Mauser. With deft hands he puts the gun back together before flipping it out, holding the gun’s handle out for Lena to take.

The girl stares at him with a single raised brow.

“You told me once that it would be worth it if I waited. That one day, I would find the reason why I never used the single bullet that lies in this gun.” He begins slowly. “Well, I found my reason. And it was worth it.”

She grants him a smile and wraps a small hand around the auburn grip.

“Thank you.”

 

* * *

 

Gabriel knows. He supposed he always has.

It was just a question of when, and where.

And how.

In a way, he likens himself and Jack to magnets. Before all this, they were always together. Stuck to each other’s sides firmly and adamantly refusing to be parted no matter what. But despite it all, a wedge had driven deep between them and pulled them apart. This wedge had taken the form of blindness that he believed his partner had taken up in favour of listening to him. Of selfishness that the latter was so caught up with the world that he forgot what ‘ _ us _ ’ meant. Of jealousy that Morrison - which he once more became, no longer  _ Jack _ or  _ Sunshine _ \- that the world constantly fawned over, the poster perfect image, while they left him to rot in the dust. And finally, of hatred, when he learnt that his former partner had survived the explosion…

And left him for  _ dead _ .

He never questioned it, never once talked about it. In hindsight, perhaps he should have. Instead, he let that gap between magnets fester, grow. Until they were worlds,  _ leagues _ apart. But in the end, things that attract would eventually come back together and their devastating contact as they collided would shatter them both. Or that was what he believed, what he constantly told himself.

He never had reason to doubt his thoughts. Morrison never gave him reason to.

But now as he fights the Soldier, matching blow for blow, countering step for step, he finds the other man giving more than pushing. He sees that there are cracks in his facade, and Gabriel knows.

If they collide, it will be Jack who breaks.

He tries not to let that bother him, he has wanted this,  _ waited _ for this for years. The old soldier has had it coming, he  _ deserved _ it. All of Gabriel’s animosity, cold glares and words,  _ hatred.  _ So the Reaper fills himself, fuels himself with the very wedge that once drove deep between them. All the heart wrenching emotions, the anger, the  _ pain _ . And he strikes and strikes again.

He trips the soldier, tears off his mask and visor, runs his claws near Jack’s blue eyes. As bright and as blue as the day he met the man. There is something in their depths he cannot name, the rippling of a still pond signalling a change. Reaper grunts, pushes, delves deeper, his claws come dangerously close. The overwhelming urge to claw them out is there just within his grasp, but something in those blue depths shifts.

And he stutters.

_ There are tall plants Gabriel cannot name. They reach for the pristine blue sky, their tips glazed an eye-blinding gold. He covers his eyes against them, stumbling and falling through the tall barrier they create to the sound of lapping water he knows is somewhere on the other side. It is not easy, the dead stalks that cover the floor trip him every step of the way and soon he is bruised and covered in scratches from his falls. _

_ But he makes it to the other side. _

_ And gasps. _

_ The sea that stretches to the horizon is mirror still. There are stars in it’s depths that watch with unforgiving looks and Gabriel knows to never touch this water for their ethereal light would burn. So he stands at the shore’s edge, casts his eyes over where sea meets land. And finds a wooden row boat moored near bowing golden plants. There is a man with the boat, he wears a military uniform befitting of the US army back when the omnics first struck. He is smoking a cigarette and carelessly he turns to look Gabriel over. _

_ “ _ You ain’t him, _ ” he says. _

And then Gabriel is jerked back into the present just in time to push the soldier away and catch himself as the narrow catwalk they had occupied for their fight gave way, sending them sprawling two levels down onto unforgiving cold floor. Gabriel is first up, reeling onto his feet and backwards from the vision he had seen in still beautiful cerulean eyes. He gasps for breath, clawing at his own face until his trademark bone mask has joined the soldier’s visor on the floor. 

_ What was that. What was that. What was that _ .

Gabriel knows. He is supposed to know.

Gabriel himself is dead, as he would like to tell himself. With his powers he can see the emotions, the feelings and sometimes the thoughts that run through a person’s mind. It is something he takes from them when they die, something he cannot name but knows what it is all the same. An integral part of life, a  _ soul _ if you will. But rarely does he see into a soul still living in a human shell, even rarer does he see visions reflected back in eyes - the windows to the soul. He wished he had not seen what lied in Jack’s soul but the oddity of the scene is not lost on him. The golden plants, the cloudless blue sky and a sea of stars that stretch to the horizon. He sees the unknown man again smoking a cigarette by a wooden rowing boat.

Gabriel knows. He doesn’t want to know.

So he chooses to ask.

He whirls, fangs bared to snarl at the other man only to find Jack being wrenched away by another Talon trooper. The terrorist has the soldier in a solid headlock, dragging him backwards, holding Jack up as a shield between himself and the oncoming Overwatch agents that had banded together. In another hand the Talon trooper holds up a detonator, his finger hovering menacingly over a plump red button.

“Stand back!” The trooper shouts. The soldier in his grip writhes and he clamps down, drawing a strangled sound from Jack. “I said stand back! If any of you take one more step forward I’ll blow us all to hell!”

But there was one who denied his order. Lena took a single step in their direction.

The Talon trooper catches on, brandishes the detonator between them.

“I said.” He punctuates it with the tightening of his arm around Jack’s neck. “Don’t.”

Gabriel sees it, the way blue eyes met hazel brown hidden under orange goggles. How the smallest of nods escape Jack, and then Lena is putting away her Pulse pistols. Only to retrieve an ebony black handgun stored in a pouch tied to her belt. She holds it up, steady in two hands and levels it right at Jack’s chest and the Talon trooper that holds him.

Her grip is strong despite the gasps from her friends. Her elbows are in, stance guarded. Focused eyes tracing down the narrow length of the barrel to the blunted nub at its tip, an aiming aid.

And Gabriel chokes.

_ Mauser C96 _ , a handgun famed for its service throughout history. Favoured as it was by soldiers and officers, it should not have stunned him into silence as it did. But then he remembered, the first night when he found Jack alone in a barracks, right before they were both to be shipped off to SEP. He remembers seeing the silver embossed ferns on the auburn grip badly hidden under a squashed pillow, he remembers seeing enough of the box chamber to be able to name the weapon.

He also remembers, the night he found Jack alone on a roof with the Mauser to his head, ready to whisper it’s bullet into his ear. He sees again, the book of names by the blond’s side. And then every time after, the pen to paper, the gun by his partner’s waist.

Back then he took it upon himself, to hide the Mauser away, afraid of what it might do to the light of his life. But Jack would always look for it like a child with a favourite toy, no matter what Gabriel did, he always had to relent. Always had to leave the weapon where Jack would eventually find it. For a while he stayed and kept watch, making sure the Mauser never did what Jack intended it to do. With one bullet in the chamber and held tight against the blond’s body, it was sometimes hard for Gabriel to breathe. But like with everything, fears and paranoia soon faded with the passing of time and distance and he soon forgot why he ever bothered.

But there were some things you don’t forget, not even with years and countless minutes between. The last time he had seen the Mauser was when he had approached Jack to ‘chat’ - right before the Zurich base disaster. He could recall with crystal clarity, how Lena had pulled Jack’s hand away from the gun. He could recall, every detail; that after Lena left, Jack had a hard time not brushing his fingers along the tiny weapon, had a hard time not leaning against the leg where the gun was strapped. Back then Gabriel had chalked it up as self defense thing, that the Strike-Commander’s paranoia had led him to the point where he was ready to point the gun at anything, even at Gabriel.

How wrong he was.

He never realised that the paranoia had been his own.

That when he finally lost his cool and punched Jack right across the jaw, the blond never made a move to point the Mauser at him. That when the building came crumbling down around them, and the weapon was somehow separated from Jack’s side, it was not the Mauser that Jack reached for, but Gabriel.

He supposes he knew. Had always known.

There was only one bullet in the chamber.

And Jack always intended it for himself.

And now the gun in the hand of another would lay it’s bullet to rest in his heart.

The soldier with hair of scorched starlight nodded once more and Gabriel sees Lena tighten, the breath in her lungs still, and her mouth move.

_ Count to five _ .

And Gabriel knows; he has to choose.

 

…………

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> **PLEASE READ:**  
>  The next two chapters are as much the READER's choice as it is the Reaper's, and whatever you choose will decide Jack's fate.  
> Should you choose to {Stop LENA}, see **A Soldier's Life** (Chapt. 7)  
>  Should you choose to {Stop DETONATOR}, see **A Man's Life** (Chapt. 8)  
>  Both chapters will be uploaded next Sunday (I'm trying to change to a more frequent updating schedule) so look forward to that. Also, I hope I gave you guys enough clues in this chapter to make your choice as to how you want this story to end.
> 
> P.S. Another clue. So far, all chapters have been named after Hans Zimmer songs with Chapter 6 being modeled after Now We Are Free (from Gladiator). Chapters 7 and 8 also go with this flow.


	7. A Soldier's Life

**Notes for the Chapter:**

>  **PLEASE READ:**  
>  Just as a reminder: This is one of two endings that you get to choose from.  
> In this chapter you have chosen to { STOP LENA }. If this is not what you want, head to chapter 8: A Man's Life.

_ One _ .

Lena stills herself, letting all sounds and distractions flow in one ear and out the other. She treats them as if they were the lightest of breezes. Ever present but always on the sidelines, a background.

_ Two _ .

She cocks the hammer. The Mauser’s click was barely audible, so well polished and oiled, its movements were now as smooth as silk. She keeps the weapon level, steady.

_ Three _ .

She knows, Jack is counting the numbers with her but his blue eyes are roaming. She knows he is looking at the stars who lie hidden in the fading sky. She knows he is committing the faces of everyone to memory.

_ Four _ .

His eyes focus on her, a smile playing on his scarred lips before they are sliding closed. She allows her finger to slide from trigger guard to trigger. The Talon trooper is still screaming. He thinks she won’t do it. He’s wrong.

_ Fi- _

“ _ LENA! LOOK OUT! _ ”

It’s all the warning Tracer receives before the swarm of darkness crashes into her. It’s suffocating without meaning to, broiling hot in a way that is far from what any living creature could take. She panics, screams. The nanites that are the Reaper recoil slightly but then surge forward with renewed vigor. Through the haze, the buzzing of angry machines that swarm around her ears, her body, she feels clawed hands, surprisingly cool, grasp the wrist with which she holds the Mauser.

All at once her mind clears.

All at once she is ticking back the seconds.

The device on her chest blossoms with blue sparks, enveloping her body in a cocoon of light and she is wisping out of the Reaper’s grasp. The wraith collapses on thin air, snarling, screeching. He twists, just in time to see the girl reappear behind, the small ebony handgun in two hands, she tries to take aim, tries to lift both hands to take the shot. But the Reaper intercepts, blocks. He matches her step for step. Retreats, blinks forward, back as she does, but forever in her way.

The girl sees the expression on his face, the furrowed concentration imprinted on his brows and the steely set of his jaws. The eyes that glow ruby with desperation and fear - for who, she was not sure.

But she can hazard a guess.

_ They _ were close once.

He won’t let her shoot.

Not at Jack.

… 

click.

**BANG** .

… 

They both stumble, startled. Lena swerves, Reaper twists.

They see Jack struggling with the terrorist. The soldier has turned to attack the Talon trooper, wrestling the detonator from clammy hands. But the silver soldier is bleeding, a blooming blood red rose unfurling in his gut, caused from the foreign pistol held in the terrorists hand.

Jack tears the detonator towards himself.

The terrorist raises his gun again.

… 

click.

**BANG** .

…

Lena gasps. The Reaper stills.

The next rose unfurls over Jack’s heart. The soldier falters, two steps back, hand tight around the detonator in his hand. There is blood trickling between his lips, there is a numbness in his eyes.

Jack throws the detonator to the floor. Stomps on it, destroys it.

The terrorist raises his gun again.

…

click.

**BANG** .

…

The girl enveloped in an eye smarting blue and the Reaper in a whirlwind of hissing spitting black lunge for the terrorist. They tear the gun from his hand, push him back from Jack.

Jack who was falling.

Jack who was cold from the strands of his hair to the tips of his toes.

Jack who had the biggest rose of all blossoming between sightless blue eyes.

Gabriel roars, his cry echoing through the compound, he kicks, swarms over the Talon trooper in a hissing, buzzing cloud of swirling black sand. He drags the terrorist to the floor, wrenches the trooper’s hands behind his back so harshly the man arches in pain. But the final blow came not from him. But from the Mauser in a crying girl’s hand.

Tears streaming out from under oddly bright orange goggles, Lena levels the handgun at the trooper’s head. She doesn’t count, she doesn’t wait, the Mauser has waited and its purpose had been torn, shredded to pieces. 

She fires.

The single silver bullet spirals over the distance, hammer slamming into the patch of skin between index finger and thumb - it scores a nasty scratch that bleeds and stings. The sound the Mauser makes is thunder over stormy seas. The recoil is crackling whip and snapping piranhas. It burns in her hands, it hurts her wrist, tears from her fingers.

To clatter broken beside its master.

Lena drops beside Jack. Gabriel follows, throwing aside the now ashen husk of the terrorist.

They stare at each other.

Ruby red to orange tinted brown.

_ Bring him back _ .

It goes unsaid. But they hear it all the same

Gabriel steels himself, leans down to lock hot lips against cold ones.

And then he was diving after Jack.

 

* * *

 

Leaves of gold tickle against Jack’s palms, their feather light tips drawing patterns into his skin. He lets them, running parted fingers through the field as if petting the fur on a cat’s back. They sashay back, much like a contented purr. His smile is gentle, relaxed and free after years of strain and pretense. The clothing he wears -  sturdy military fatigues, a black compression shirt  \- is  tight around his frame, comfortable and practical, allowing the leaves of the plants to slide harmlessly away . He revels in the feeling,  of cloth taut over skin  that had been abused in too many ways - too many scars from battles, personal skirmishes, not to mention the burns from a building long gone. The patchwork of injuries used to pull whenever he walked, phantom pains following close behind until he would be seeing fire seeds dancing over a muddy ground tinted glossy red. But here there was none of that, and he realised he had never felt so at ease in his own skin.

So Jack takes his time, feeling the crinkle of dried matter beneath his  booted feet as he walked, listened to the slightest whistle of wind playing through thin reeds as he moved. At the edges of his senses he can hear the lapping of water, rhythmically beating against a shore without abandon and soon he finds his feet sinking under the feeling of moist earth and trickling water. The crystal cold liquid sent shivers snaking up his spine but nevertheless Jack pressed on, gently brushing away the tall stalks that stand in his way until he was peering out over a sea made of all the stars in the sky.

They twinkle as they had always done, celestial light bright in the imperial blue depths that Jack supposed reached to infinity. He marveled at the sight, c arefully running a hand across the mirror like surface - teasing the barest of ripples from its imperial blue depths. He wonders,  _ dreams _ , that if he were to ever sail on such a sea, he could go on forever without ever worrying about getting lost. And how tempting was such a dream he thinks, eyes tracing the line of the distant horizon. 

“You can give it a try y’know,” a voice suggested. “Sail out there, I mean.”

Jack jerked his hand back, scouring the shore for the source of the voice, only to stare slack jawed at the man that approached, clad in US military uniform befitting of a time long past but not forgotten, with a single stick of cigarette perched between two fingers and the clink of his dog tags light around his neck.

The younger man was running for the older soldier even before his brain had caught up. With a crash, Jack tackled Smith into regal golden stalks, his arms locked tight around the other man’s waist as the older soldier laughed, his hat knocked askew. His cries of his once-rescuer’s name were muffled, buried in a thick military jacket that was quickly growing wet with his own tears. Fingers ruffled through his silver hair in the same way they did back when he was a little boy, and he couldn’t tell anymore, whether the sounds that broke from his throat were cries of joy or just words garbled from the many sobs that continued to wrack his chest.

Smith let him cry, let him scream. Never once stopping the hand that soothed through his hair and the other that rubbed slow circles into his back. The small smile that played across the older man’s lips were kind around the cigarette he had managed to sandwich back between his teeth.

Jack didn’t know how long his outburst lasted, perhaps a few minutes, perhaps an entire hour, but Smith never pushed him away throughout the ordeal, only offering his silent comfort until the young man finally managed to sit up and rasp a badly strung series of apologies. 

_ Reunions _ , he had forgotten how they felt.

Smith laughed it aside, the wrinkles around his eyes light, as he stood and stretched a hand out to Jack. The silvered blond took it, finding himself lifted upright and into another firm hug.

“Guess the kid finally grew into a man,” Smith chuckled as they broke apart, ruffling Jack’s silver hair once more.

Jack sniffled, rubbing his runny nose on the back of a wrist. “Only did what had to be done,” he rasped. “‘m a soldier after all.”

The older soldier chuckled, but shook his head. There was a distant look in his eyes, downcast, as if saddened by what he heard. With a hand, Smith gestured for the younger man to follow as he turned and began leading them to the other length of the shore.

With his back turned, Jack couldn’t see Smith’s face, but when the older soldier spoke once more, it was warm, firm. Like a father speaking to his son.

“So you did what had to be done,” Smith repeated, if Jack didn’t know better he would’ve suspected the older soldier sounded… _ disappointed _ . “Made the ultimate sacrifice to save others.” A pause “What about your friends?”

Jack remained silent, thinking, keeping pace after the older soldier. Finally he murmured, “They can live without me.”

“Can they though?” Careless, thrown over a shoulder.

“They have each other.” Jack replied. Convinced.

“But not you.”

_ Did it matter _ ?

“I fail to see where this is going,” Jack hissed, annoyed despite himself.

Smith sighed. Leaning forward, the older soldier pressed aside a thicket of golden stalks, revealing a small clearing. With a jerk of his head, he indicated that Jack should step through. The silvered blond did so reluctantly.

“Do you know, how my wife took my death?’ Smith asked. Abrupt. Casual.

Jack paused. Nibbled at his lip. “No.”

“She cursed my name.”

“ _ What _ ?” Jack blinked. “But you-”

“Saved the lives of countless children from dying and fought for my home country,” Smith sighed, it was spoken like a mantra, a sentence sung in the back of the head until all the words had lost meaning. “She didn’t care. What  _ did _ matter to her was that I was dead and our own two kids had to be raised fatherless. I was a soldier, yes. I did what had to be done, just like everyone else fighting the war. But she took it… _ hard _ when I came back in a coffin.”

He brushed past Jack, stepping up beside a wooden row boat moored too high on the shore. With careless motions, the old soldier leaned down to pick up a pair of oars resting on a bed of golden reeds, tossing them easily over the rim of the boat and into its hull. That done, he stood, leaning on the boat’s stern.

“War... Well, you know war.” Smith sighed. “It takes and it takes. As dead men, it's easy to let go - we’ve nothing left to lose.” He shook his head, tugging on ropes to untie the boat from the shore. “But the living, they lose and lose and lose but they have to keep living anyway.” Slowly, he coiled the ropes in his hands, hands callused and used to circling  their skin around a gun. “Perhaps it’s selfish of them, but they bust their asses in a world that’s hardly kind. Would be nice to throw them a bone sometimes.”

“Smith, I-I don’t get where this is going.” Jack stammered, stepping up to the opposite side of the row boat, a hand on the wooden rim, tracing the splinterless surface.

“Then let me spell it out for you,” Smith said, a finality in his tone. With a reckless toss, the coiled ropes were thrown into the prow of the boat. The man himself leaning an arm on the rim of the wooden creation, his eyes bearing a seriousness that Jack had never seen before.

“Do you think you saved your friends and everyone else by sacrificing yourself?” He pointed, finger accusing “That thing you just did, throwing your life away...

“ _ It only hurt them even more _ .”

Jack opened his mouth to protest but was cut off by a wave of Smith’s hand. Shaking his head, the older soldier placed both palms flat on the stern of the boat and pushed. Silently, Jack mimicked the other man, pushing his side of the boat. Together, they began the slow trudge of moving the boat to water.

“As soldiers, they teach you not to fear death.  _ Dulce et decorum est, pro patria mori _ . They never tell you what happens to those who keep living, the sights they see, the guilt they feel.” Smith sighed. “You faced it yourself Jackie. After my death, your squadron’s, Liao’s, Gérard’s,  _ Ana _ ’s… even that Gabriel’s.” He huffed, replacing his hands with his shoulders against the stern of the boat, pushing hard. “All our deaths; we hurt you in a way that left scars on your very soul. We thought we did what was right by saving you and standing for the cause and look at you now.

“Five times you tried to shoot yourself because you were so fucking alone in the world and couldn’t stand the guilt of being the last man standing,” he grunted. “And the last time? You gave that fucking gun over to your protege and  tried to  have her shoot you so your remaining friends could live.”

Jack grunted, head down, leaning hard against the boat as he pushed with all his might. The mud tugged adamantly at its wooden hull, refusing to be parted. It didn’t help that his booted feet constantly slipped in the wet earth, digging up valleys of grit between and around his feet as he panted from exertion. His scars burned, sweat poured from his head, tracing the largest markings that stretched across his face, forever branding him. It felt like hours had gone and passed before the boat finally caught, sliding over a small rise in the ground to tumble into the water. It’s descent into the sea of stars marked by the ripples in its wake, small waves splashing against the shore.

Quickly, both men darted for the boat before it could drift away. As Jack held the boat steady, standing knee deep in freezing cold water, with stars swirling around his feet like many curious tadpoles, Smith climbed into the boat with all the finesse of a tired soldier. Crashing into wooden boards before finally sitting up.

“Don’t think that just because your friends aren’t happy to see you, that means that they don’t care about you.” Smith panted. “They’ll still mourn your death - even if you’ve already died once. It’ll leave scars that no one can see, leave ripples in a pond not meant to be changed.” He huffed, sitting up, crawling to the stern to grasp Jack’s shoulder tightly “I didn’t get to say so before I left Jackie, I’m sorry for all the pain I would cause you with my passing. You didn’t deserve it.”

Jack’s hands tightened around the rim of the boat, lips pursed and eyes scrunched tight. An  _ apology _ , of all things. Forty years down the line and by a boat ready to sail into the unknown, with a path marked by stars that scorned the living and the absence of a gun that had been more than just a companion. Finally he shook his head, opened his eyes to trace the stars that danced around his legs, drawing constellations on his skin like he had once done so in a room now a ruin.

“You didn’t know it was going to happen,” Jack murmured.

“Doesn’t excuse me for what I did.” Smith leaned down, grabbing Jack’s shoulder “If I could do it all again I would make sure we all lived. That way we could’ve all gone to the bar together and celebrated like we were supposed to. No tears, no guilt, no pain and especially, no fucking guns to the head.”

A dry chuckle escaped Jack at the last. As Smith moved away from the edge of the boat, extending a hand back so Jack could climb aboard. The silvered blond took the hand, locked in a firm grasp but blinked when Smith did not immediately pull him up. Looking up, his blue eyes gazed deep into Smith’s saddened brown ones.

Jack blinked, confused.

With all the stars singing around his shoed ankles.

_ There was an ache in his gut. Cold and heavy all at once. _

With all the waves lapping at a muddy shore.

_ Something in his heart. All sharp edges and cutting pieces. _

With all the blue heavens stretching into the unknown.

_ His head hurt. Like when someone put a pencil right between your eyes, not touching, but the pressure, it was pressing. It hurt. _

He adjusted his grip around Smith’s hand. Took a deep breath. And tugged.

Smith pulled him into the boat, settled him down on a beam where he sat awkwardly, hands tight around the sides of the boat as he attempted to weather through the rocking.

Abruptly, there is a flurry of noise behind him.

Of wild sashaying leaves torn from the earth, of a harsh buzzing signature of swirling nanites. He heard the pained rasp of breaths too quick to be calm, too shallow to be anything but a desperate man. And Jack can imagine it, the dishevelled figure, with midnight smoke curling around his frame like wings flapping in panic. The man’s coat would be torn, ripped to shreds by golden leaves that had sunk into the cloth like many claws. He would be wounded, too - scratches on ashen dark skin, bruises on skin revealed by torn cloth and his boots littered with the remains of dried matter that had tried to trip him.

Jack wonders what he would’ve seen in ruby red eyes…

“ _ Jack! _ ”

If he imagined hard enough, he could almost see the horror, the dismay in them.

“ _ Don’t do this! Come back!” _

His hands tightened around the rims of the boat, white knuckled, barely holding on.

“ _ J A C K ! _ ”

It was pained. So much hurt. He couldn’t take it. He tried to turn-

“Don’t turn around!” Smith hissed. Hands clamped onto the silvered blond’s chin, keeping him staring straight at the old soldier before him and the horizon that stretched to nowhere. “ _ You  _ made this choice Jackie.  _ You _ chose this life. You can’t turn back, not anymore.”

The breath was shallow in his lungs, ice cold, heavy, too fast and not enough all at once. He could hear the splashes of water behind him, someone bumbling head first only to yell out in pain as ferocious stars turned on the still-living intruder. Their shrieking battle filled the air. Too much water, splashing, the curses, the cries.

“ **_J A C K !_ ** ”

“I can’t do this,” Jack whimpered, cried. The tears streamed from his eyes. He was green again, the little boy holding a rifle as he looked down its sights at the one who needed to die. _ “I can’t- I didn’t choose this! Let me go. Please!” _

“You did.” Smith whispered. It was an order, the command that every man followed as mortars rained down around them and the blood of their friends trickled between their fingers. “We are the ones who do what has to be done.” One hand remained around Jack’s chin but the other was shoving oars into his hands, pushing him to begin paddling. “To protect the ones we love. Even if it will hurt when we come back in empty coffins.”

“ **_NO!_ ** ”

“Smith-”

“A Soldier’s life Jack.” Smith growled. “A Soldier’s life.”

Jack sees it. The blood that begins to spread over Smith’s uniform.

He touches his own head. And blinks as his fingers come away red.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> I'll say this; this chapter was by far one of the hardest I've ever tried to write. Touching on subjects like this is difficult to capture and convey and I hope I've at least managed to give SOME justice to the topics. Also, as some of you have realized, this was actually the angst ending (hardy har har har). Of course, there is nothing stopping you from reading the happier ending and in fact I would encourage it, at least for the 'emotional aftercare'.
> 
> Also, SPECIAL THANKS TO BRIGHTREDZ. She helped me beta read both this and A man's life so kudos to her <3 (You can visit her tumblr here: http://brightredz.tumblr.com/ )
> 
> AND FINALLY: I know that I've not responded to any messages posted for my works so far. I really REALLY apologise for that. I read and love all your comments and the messages that you guys sent but I vowed to myself I would not reply at least until the work is complete. It's a bit of a incentive thing for me since I have trouble finishing pieces. Thank you so much for reading and supporting my works ^_^


	8. A Man's Life

**Notes for the Chapter:**

>  **PLEASE READ:**  
>  Just as a reminder: This is one of two endings that you get to choose from.  
> In this chapter you have chosen to { STOP DETONATOR }. If this is not what you want, head to chapter 7: A Soldier's Life.

_ One _ .

Lena stills herself, letting all sounds and distractions flow in one ear and out the other. She treats them as if they were the lightest of breezes. Ever present but always on the sidelines, a background.

_ Two _ .

She cocks the hammer. The Mauser’s click was barely audible, so well polished and oiled, its movements were now as smooth as silk. She keeps the weapon level, steady.

_ Three _ .

She knows, Jack is counting the numbers with her but his blue eyes are roaming. She knows he is looking at the stars who lie hidden in the fading sky. She knows he is committing the faces of everyone to memory.

_ Four _ .

His eyes focus on her, a smile playing on his scarred lips before they are sliding closed. She allows her finger to slide from trigger guard to trigger. The Talon trooper is still screaming. He thinks she won’t do it. He’s wrong.

_ … _

She knows. Jack has never gotten this far, ever. It must surprise them both that it does.

_ Five _ .

click.

**BANG** .

The breath is knocked out of Jack’s lung as the silver bullet collides with his chest, dapples of blood flying into the air, the wound unfurling like a blooming rose. The metal slug ploughs right through his body as she had hoped, burying itself in the Talon trooper behind him.

Jack crumples, slipping from spasming fingers, as if asleep.

She watches with the lowering of the Mauser, smoke curling from the muzzle, it’s purpose complete.

He looks so peaceful.

_ Dead. _

There is no peace for the living.

The scream of the Talon Trooper drags her attention back, the terrorist is still alive, still holds the detonator and he raises it, finger bearing down. All at once the Chronal Accelerator strapped to her chest sparks, an ethereal blue glow enveloping her body.

But before she could reach him, another was already there.

 

* * *

 

There was a high screeching in Gabriel’s ears, whiting out all noise, as if he had heard the shot with a ear right next to the barrel. He couldn’t even depend on his eyes, blood and a limp body branded within ruby red sclera. All he had was his nanites, they were his body, his strength,  _ him _ . With a single-minded focus, he directed them at the Talon trooper, flooding over him like quicksand.

Apt he manages to think, as their particles stream over the screaming terrorist. He feels a body convulsing under his weight, feels the frightened yell he muffles by filling with angry nanomachines. It is easy, to lose himself like this, broken down to nothing but his very essence. Gabriel is dead, but never in this moment has he felt more alive, trying to wrench the still beating soul of the terrorist from its body. Images assails him, he sees again.  _ Jack, _ body injured and struggling in another man’s hold _. Jack, _ with beautiful blue eyes nodding to a girl with a gun _. Jack, _ falling and falling and falling _. _ Clawed hands part from the curling, writhing flow of swarming black sand. Gabriel fumbles, tears the detonator from tortured hands, drives the silver tipped appendages deep until the pained cry - whether his own or the terrorist’s he is unsure - is silenced.

Unceremoniously, he parts from the ashen husk, tossing it aside.

He sinks to his knees beside Jack.

Jack who is still.

Jack who is bleeding his heart all over the floor.

Jack whose soul was falling to  _ that _ place.

Gabriel steels himself, leans over to lock hot lips against cold ones.

And then he was diving after him.

 

* * *

 

Leaves of gold tickle against Jack’s palms, their feather light tips drawing patterns into his skin. He lets them, running parted fingers through the field as if petting the fur on a cat’s back. They sashay back, much like a contented purr. His smile is gentle, relaxed and free after years of strain and pretense. The clothing he wears - clean linen dyed a comforting cream - is light on his shoulders, fluttering around his gaunt frame but never catching on the burrs of the reclining plants. He revels in the feeling, cloth caressing skin that had been abused in too many ways - too many scars from battles, personal skirmishes, not to mention the burns from a building long gone. The patchwork of injuries used to pull whenever he walked, phantom pains following close behind until he would be seeing fire seeds dancing over a muddy ground tinted glossy red. But here there was none of that, and he realised he had never felt so at ease in his own skin.

So Jack takes his time, feeling the crinkle of dried matter beneath his bare feet as he walked, listened to the slightest whistle of wind playing through thin reeds as he moved. At the edges of his senses he can hear the lapping of water, rhythmically beating against a shore without abandon and soon he finds his barefeet tingle with the feeling of moist earth and trickling water. The crystal cold liquid sent shivers snaking up his spine but nevertheless Jack pressed on, gently brushing away the tall stalks that stand in his way until he was peering out over a sea made of all the stars in the sky.

They twinkle as they had always done, celestial light bright in the imperial blue depths that Jack supposed reached to infinity. He marveled at the sight, c arefully running a hand across the mirrorlike surface - teasing the barest of ripples from its imperial blue depths. He wonders,  _ dreams _ , that if he were to ever sail on such a sea, he could go on forever without ever worrying about getting lost. And how tempting was such a dream he thinks, eyes tracing the line of the distant horizon. 

“You can give it a try y’know,” a voice suggested. “Sail out there, I mean.”

Jack jerked his hand back, scouring the shore for the source of the voice, only to stare slack jawed at the man that approached, clad in US military uniform befitting of a time long past but not forgotten, with a single stick of cigarette perched between two fingers and the clink of his dog tags light around his neck.

The younger man was running for the older soldier even before his brain had caught up. With a crash, Jack tackled Smith into regal golden stalks, his arms locked tight around the other man’s waist as the older soldier laughed, his hat knocked askew. His cries of his once-rescuer’s name were muffled, buried in a thick military jacket that was quickly growing wet with his own tears. Fingers ruffled through his silver hair in the same way they did back when he was a little boy, and he couldn’t tell anymore, whether the sounds that broke from his throat were cries of joy or just words garbled from the many sobs that continued to wrack his chest.

Smith let him cry, let him scream. Never once stopping the hand that soothed through his hair and the other that rubbed slow circles into his back. The small smile that played across the older man’s lips were kind around the cigarette he had managed to sandwich back between his teeth.

Jack didn’t know how long his outburst lasted, perhaps a few minutes, perhaps an entire hour, but Smith never pushed him away throughout the ordeal, only offering his silent comfort until the young man finally managed to sit up and rasp a badly strung series of apologies. 

_ Reunions _ , he had forgotten how they felt.

Smith laughed it aside, the wrinkles around his eyes light, as he stood and stretched a hand out to Jack. The silvered blond took it, finding himself lifted upright and into another firm hug.

“You’re a long way from home kid,” Smith hummed.

“I’m pushing on sixty now Smith,” Jack protested. “I’m not a kid anymore.”

Smith snorted. “You’re still a kid to me.”

Waving a hand in the air, the old soldier beckoned Jack to follow. Head-up, strong, he was everything Jack remembered the old soldier to be. Friendly, and always ready to throw in a chuckle as he taught the youngsters around camp how to hold a gun and punch an omnic. Together, Smith lead them along the shore with a tune on his lips, looking back now and then to make sure Jack was keeping pace.

“So,” Smith drawled. “How’s the family?”

“Be more specific.”

Smith paused, thinking thoughtfully. “Lena.”

“Could slow down a bit - a  _ lot _ ,” Jack corrected himself. “But we have time to work on it.”

“Ana.”

“Still one of the strongest women I’ve ever met. Wouldn’t have anyone else watching my back.”

“Angela.”

“Looks the same but she’s smarter now. Proud of her, of all of them.”

“You say that but you’ve been keeping your distance,” Smith grunted, flicking a stray leaf out of his eye. His tone was casual, light, as if talking about the weather.

With his back turned, the older soldier didn’t see Jack shrug. “The war’s not over Smith,” Jack sighed. “I don’t think it ever ended with the first Omnic Crisis - at least, it didn’t for me. Everyone around me keeps dying. I don’t want them close by.”

“ _ Or _ ,” Smith interjected “You’re afraid of hurting them when it’s your turn to go.”

“Like I said Smith…” Jack began.

“ _ I’m old _ .” Smith chorused with him, twisting just enough to grin from ear to ear. Jack’s only response was to shove him playfully in the shoulder. Chuckling, the old soldier leaned forward to press aside a thicket of golden stalks, revealing a small clearing. With a jerk of his head, he indicated that Jack should step through. The silvered blond did so with a little hop in his step. In the clearing was a wooden row boat moored too high on the shore. Stepping up to the neglected creation, Jack carefully rubbed a hand along the splinterless rim.

“Jackie.”

“Hmm?” He hummed

“Answer me truthfully,” Smith grunted, making his way to the far side of the boat and leaning down to pick up a pair of oars resting on golden reeds, tossing them easily over the rim of the boat and into its hull. “Long distance relationships. Do you think they work?”

“Hardy har Smith,” Jack puffed. “What is this  _ really _ about?”

“Nothing,” Smith replied cheerfully, tugging on ropes to untie the boat from the shore. “Okay well, it’s not nothing. It’s about you. Do you really think distance is going to save your friends when it’s your turn to cross the sea?” He finished the last with a vague gesture in the direction of the sea of stars.

“Would save them the tears,” Jack whispered back, eyeing the twinkling surface.

They lapsed into silence, Smith busy with the ropes he coiled in hands too worn and used to handling a gun, and Jack, tracing his own callused hands on the smoothened rim of the boat. His barefeet sank with every little step around the boat, mud sticky around his toes and he leaned down to find that the gooey concoction had plastered itself thickly against the wooden hull.

“You cried when I died.”

Jack paused, straightening himself from where he had been bent double inspecting the base of the boat. He narrowed his eyes at Smith - Smith who was taking an awfully long time folding the ropes in his hands.

“Yeah, I did.” Jack said, because he felt that it needed an answer. Quickly leaning back down, he noticed a stack of unused boards laying on another thicket of reeds. Not stopping to think about where they had appeared from, the silvered blond quickly took them and began slipping them between the soggy mud and the hull of the boat.

“We didn’t talk for the few years after I left that camp with my squad,” Smith huffed around his cigarette. “It was only after SEP that you found out I got my ass busted on the frontline. Still, you cried.”

“You  _ saved _ me from that barn when I was sixteen,” Jack snapped. “Of course I’m going to cry over you.”

The older man paused, eyes distant on the horizon that lay far out of reach. Nonchalantly, he tossed his burden of ropes into the boat.

“You really think this is so different from how your friends feel about  _ you _ ?” He asked abruptly, steel in his voice.

“I didn’t save even half of them and the half that  _ did _ die... kind of don’t like me,” Jack snapped, roughly jerking a board deeper into the mud.

“You don’t know that,” Smith pointed out.

“That’s beside the point,” Jack hissed, delivering a harsh kick to a stubborn board. He paused, straightened. His silver hair was matted with sweat, his many scars, burns, itched, but he kept his blue eyes steady, resting on the horizon as if God had taken a pen and ruler and drawn a line. Finally he sighed, “The point… I guess the point is that I used to want someone to cry over me when I went. But along the way  _ I  _ kept being the one that cried. I kept having to be the one that watched people go when they didn’t have to. I’m sick and tired of it. I hated crossing their names out, I hated being the one who stood in a black suit at the end of the day, I  _ hated _ being the one who had to sit in a bar full of empty chairs and empty tables when it's all said and done!” He stopped, gulping for breath. “It got so bad to the point that I… that I-”

“Started putting a gun to your own head,” Smith finished for him. The old soldier was leaning against the side of the boat, watching Jack work with kind eyes.

“Yeah,  _ that _ .” Jack muttered. “I don’t want the others to become like me.” He tossed the last of the boards aside. “If me distancing myself means they won’t have to go through what I did then so be it.”

“Selfish, aren’t you?”

Jack chuckled. “The worst.”

A hand landed on his shoulder, a sturdy grip, grounding. With a jerk of Smith’s head, the duo returned to the stern of the boat, hands on smoothened wood, and together they began the long trudge of bringing boat to water. With the boards between mud and hull, the passage was made easy and the wooden creation gracefully slipped over the rise to settle smoothly into glimmering waters. The stars twirled under the surface from the ripples, scattering like frightened tadpoles before returning to nudge curiously at the object floating in their domain.

Quickly, both men darted for the boat before it could drift away. As Jack held the boat steady, standing knee deep and barefeet in freezing cold water, with stars swirling around his feet in a dance of celestial light, Smith climbed into the boat with all the finesse of a tired soldier. Crashing into wooden boards before finally sitting up.

“You don’t have to stay y’know,”  the old soldier grunted, righting himself.

Jack shrugged. “I didn’t get to say a proper goodbye the first time.”

“Depends what you want to say goodbye to,” Smith returned.

“What do you mean?”

Smith ignored him in favour of sorting through the coils of rope once more. Jack could only narrow his eyes suspiciously, watching as each stroke of callused fingers on weathered rope became slower and slower than the last, each count measured, each brush so meticulously careful as if the old soldier were handling the most fragile of glass rather than sturdy rope.

“Smith-”

“Do you want to get in?” The old soldier interjected, accompanying his words with a slight nod of his head to the seats in the boat. Still, his eyes were downcast, tracing the weaving of harsh ropes, refusing to look at the younger man still stood knee deep in cold waters.

Jack hesitates, fumbles. The question is so out of the blue it had thrown him off, if but for a second.

“I-um, sure? I mean…” Jack stammers, places his palms flat on the sides of the boat, ready to heave himself in.

Only to pause as Smith grabbed his wrist in an iron-vice grip. The old soldier’s eyes were sharp, serious, and Jack shivered under them.

“Jack,” he punctuated the name, slowly, clearly. “ _Think_ about this.” He pauses, never once letting go of Jack’s wrist, only glaring deeper into Jack’s own blue eyes, a hint of something more, something he could not say but hoped, _begged_ Jack to understand. And when he spoke next, it was, _oh, so, very careful_ ,

“ _ Do you want to get in? _ ”

A loaded question.

As loaded as a small handgun with a single bullet in the chamber.

Everyone always underestimated the capabilities of single questions; of small guns and even smaller bullets. They never realised the damage they could cause was like the beating of a butterfly’s wing on a still pond, sending ripples over the once peaceful surface.

Jack knows.

This was always more than just a field of gold.

_ Dimly he hears, the thrashing of tall plants, the maddened sashay of leaves as if someone was tearing through them with a hurried ferocity _ .

More than a boat stuck between land and sea.

_ With his back turned he couldn’t see, but he could imagine; the dishevelled form, the panicked rise and fall of a chest that rasped to gather breath in starved lungs.  _

More than the stars under the water and the cloudless sky in the heavens.

_ Would the other’s eyes be filled with joy or anguish? He ponders. Dismisses as soon as he hears the audible splash of water. Immediately it is followed by the shrieking of angered stars, the snarl of a curse. _

_ This _ was only ever a one-way street to the horizon.

_ And he hears it. _

_ Just a whisper, but he hears it. _

_ His name _ .

And so Jack opens his eyes - from when he had closed them he was not sure - to let go of the rim of the boat, and take a solid step back. Smith lets him go, the smile that spread across his features as slow and kind as the way he uncurled his fingers from around Jack’s wrist. He knows,  _ they know _ . Jack has seen enough pain, and he would be damned if he let his friends suffer the way he did. He couldn’t go with Smith, even if a part of him wanted it, even if a part of him still felt guilty that he had the option; of going back or heading for the faraway horizon. But still, Jack promised himself, that one day he would make the journey with the stars under the sea to guide him and the spotless blue sky to accompany him.

One day, but not today.

“A good choice, Jack.” Smith rumbles, he sits back, reaches for the oars.

“Save me a spot at the bar,” Jack returns.

“Copy that,” Smith grunts, settling oars on either side of the boat. “When you’re ready Jack, you can turn around.” As he begins the movement of paddling he pauses, as if remembering something “Oh and Jackie, I’m sorry.”

“For what?” Jack asked, a raised eyebrow. He takes another step away from the boat, allowing the old soldier room to maneuver.

“For leaving you when you needed me,  _ us _ .” Smith said. “If I would have known the kind of pain it would cause you…” He shakes his head “I would’ve gone back and changed it all. Changed it so that there would be no tears, no guilt,” a deep breath “And no fucking guns to the head.”

“You didn’t know what was going to happen,” Jack reassured him.

“Damn right I didn’t. But if my apologising can help you in anyway,” Smith panted, body twisting to check his course. “Then you know now that I’m sorry.”

Jack chuckled, taking another step back, further. “Goodbye, Smith.”

“Take care, Jack.”

The stars swirl to fill the space between them, as Smith puts oar to water, paddling to shores God only knows where. Jack watches him as he goes, with the water’s cold nipping at his shins and the earth soft under his bare feet. Finally he turns.

And finds Gabriel on the shore.

The wraith was a mess - as Jack had rightly predicted. With midnight smoke curling around his frame like wings flapping in panic, his coat torn, ripped to shreds by golden leaves that had sunk into the cloth like many claws. He was wounded, too. There were scratches on his ashen dark skin, bruises on skin revealed by torn cloth. His boots were littered with the remains of dried matter that had tried to trip him but that was only the beginning of the damage. The metal pieces that acted as his shin guards, his armour, had been burnt, scorched black and melted in places where angry stars had tried to sink their fangs into the intruder. They did not favour the living in a sea made only for the dead and they had left their brands in the form of blotchy burns scattered over the Reaper’s ankles.

The bone white mask carved in the shape of a glaring owl was gone, revealing ruby red eyes that stood transfixed on Jack as the silvered blond made his way back to land, waddling awkwardly around the stars that fluttered around his feet and the mud that sucked at his toes.

Once within reach, Gabriel grabbed him, pulling Jack the last of the way out of the water, tucking him tightly against a broad chest adorned with too many shotgun shells and useless belts.

Jack chuckled softly, resting his head against the padded shoulder, relishing the way strong hands circled him, a nose and scarred lips pressed tightly against his hair. He made no mention of the way the other’s heart seemed to beat too fast, too hard beneath kevlar armour, the way the clawed fingers seem to dig into his back as if to stop him from slipping through.

“You’re an idiot,” Gabriel whispered. “You know that, Jackie?”

“It looks like I’m not the only one,” Jack hummed, eyes sliding closed, melting into the embrace. “I didn’t think you would come after me, not after how much pain I put you through.”

Gabriel remained silent, carding his fingers through Jack’s silvery mane, his ruby red eyes dim like molten coals burnt through the night. For now their fire is extinguished, for now their embers are warm, perhaps even cool.

“One of us has to be the lesser idiot,” the wraith finally rasped, sighed. He says nothing about the way he had panicked when he had landed amongst tall golden stalks that loomed over him like many judging patrons. He says nothing of the sounds they make, the sashay that swarms his ears from all direction like many dignitaries begging to be heard all at once, confusing, nauseating; the way they had crowded around him blocking his path, blocking him from the only thing that had mattered in the moment. And he says nothing about the way the stars had scorched his skin, shrieking like banshees and attacking like vicious dogs, driving him back while he had to watch with bated breath as the once light of his life made the very decision to stay on this cursed earth that had given them nothing but pain heaped upon pain.

“Gabriel.”

It had been so long since Jack had said his name. And just that, whispered against his shoulder, was enough to start the crack in the wedge he had driven deep in his own heart.

“We’ll work it out,” the wraith replied, vowed. It would take time, to remove all the fragments of years of hatred and jealousy from his heart. But he knew, when the last pieces would finally be removed from his body…

_ That moment would surely be worth it _ .

“Are you ready to go home,  _ moonlight _ ?” Gabriel asked.

“Ready as I’ll ever be.”

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> My friend (named below) has suggested I write an epilogue to end this properly. Also, there was a scrapped angst ending that never made it into the final piece but carried a whole different array of emotions. Depending on responses, I will see if I will upload both.
> 
> SPECIAL THANKS TO BRIGHTREDZ. She helped me beta read both this and A soldier's life so kudos to her :3 (You can visit her tumblr here: http://brightredz.tumblr.com/ )
> 
> AND FINALLY: I know that I've not responded to any messages posted for my works so far. I really REALLY apologise for that. I read and love all your comments and the messages that you guys sent but I vowed to myself I would not reply at least until the work is complete. It's a bit of a incentive thing for me since I have trouble finishing pieces. Thank you so much for reading and supporting my works ^_^


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